


Blow Gabriel Blow

by Trivialqueen



Series: Lady Edith's Murder Mysteries [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Author is American/this is not Brit-picked, Canon typical Ableism/Internalized Ableism, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Gratuitous footnote abuse, Homophobia, Individual chapters may contain other warnings, Inspired by Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, Murder Mystery, not remotely historically accurate, the author only did so much homework
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 47,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25570426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trivialqueen/pseuds/Trivialqueen
Summary: Sequel to "Cocaine Blues" - Not necessary to read that first, summary in preface.Lady Edith, now settled into her new life in London and her role as Editor-in-Chief of The Sketch, finds more than a dead body behind the Green Mill Jazz Club. Sir Anthony Strallan is back in her life and if she's going to solve this murder, she must first deal with the mystery that is her feelings for him.A Miss Fisher's inspired murder mystery AU, part II of a series.
Relationships: Edith Crawley/Anthony Strallan, OFC/OFC
Series: Lady Edith's Murder Mysteries [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650550
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. A Few Notes Before We Begin

**Author’s Preface**

Disclaimer: First and foremost: I do not own Downton Abbey, any characters or situations related to it. If you recognize it, it’s probably not mine. The mistakes, however – those are all mine.  _ Blow Gabriel Blow _ is part of a larger series of stories: “Lady Edith’s Murder Mysteries”. It was inspired, in no small part, by the Kerry Greenwood series (in case you couldn’t tell). This means a few things for this story/ series:

  * One, there are going to be murders and amateur detective work throughout. This work was heavily inspired by the Miss Fisher’s episode The Green Mill Murder. All credit where credit is due, as much as I watch mystery shows and read detective novels, I am not actually good at planning out murders. 


  * Two, this is not going to be particularly historically accurate. There will be times I will have simply not done my homework. I hope you can suspend your disbelief. I should also note I’m an American therefore not only will my spelling have a distinct lack of ‘u’s but I also have no beta and no one brit-picked this. I apologize in advance if I completely miss the nuances of London, Yorkshire, or the aristocracy. Please let me know how badly I’ve conflated everything, etc. 


  * Three, there will be sex of all flavors discussed throughout this story. In addition to content of a sexual nature there will be instances of violence (it’s a murder mystery series after all) as well as coarse language throughout. **There will also be instances of period (and canon) typical ableism/internalized ableism, homophobia, sexism, racism, xenophobia** , and general bad taste. I will try to mark any chapters that are going to be delving into any of these topics (and others) in depth, but just know that throughout there might be instances of any and all of the above. 


  * Four, there’s going to be a slug of original characters bouncing around alongside some canon favorites. In this vein, and in line with point one, this is a full-blown AU starting more or less after episode four of season three. Chronology might get moved around, people might live, people might die who do/do not in canon, and so forth. 


  * Five, this is an Andith (aka Sir Anthony Stallan/Lady Edith Crawley) series. Anthony will appear in this story, but he’s not going to get a free pass for the shit he pulled at the wedding. (Part of why this is a series is because they’ve got some work to do to properly unpack their relationship and respective baggage). This being said: I’m a shipper, I loved him, and he’s the endgame. If you don’t like him/this pairing back out now or forever hold your peace.



**A brief summary of** **_Cocaine Blues_ ** **:**

Shortly after her wedding-that-wasn’t and the death of her youngest sister, Lady Edith Crawley accepted a position as a columnist at  _ The Sketch  _ magazine. Her new life had barely begun, however, when she found her boss, Michael Gregson, dead. With the help of her new friends – Opal,  _ The Sketch _ ’s office manager, and Lori, a nurse and Opal’s partner, Edith not only manages to catch Gregson’s killer but also bring down a drug ring  _ and  _ stop an abortionist who ‘solves women’s problems’ by ripping up their bodies. 

With Gregson dead and the majority shareholders/financial backers in prison Edith was asked to step into the void. She bought the magazine and is now the editor-in-chief and living her best life in London.

  
  



	2. I've Been a Sinner, I've Been a Scamp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some (non-descript) discussion of self-harm and suicidal intentions. ** will mark the start/end of the section if you wish to skip it. Also canon typical internalized ableism throughout. 

She leaned more heavily on her male companion; he reeked of cigarettes, liquor, and cheap aftershave, but he did put out an awful lot of heat. The chimes of a nearby clock tolled twelve, for Lady Edith Crawley it was getting positively late, London, however, was just getting started.

“How much farther  _ darling _ ?” She couldn’t keep the whine entirely out of her voice. The fur wrap she had about her shoulders worked admirably for her top half, but stockings were not nearly enough to keep her exposed legs warm at all. It was not a practical outfit, but then Lady Edith wasn’t pretending to be a practical sort of girl. In fact, tonight she wasn’t even Edith Crawley at all. “Marigold Drewes” was leaning against her male companion, batting her eyes coquettishly and praying that the red lipstick she wore covered up the fact her lips had to be absolutely blue by now. 

“Just a little further now, we’re almost there.” Edith didn’t particularly like Gerald St. George, for one, unlike his title ‘the Honorable’, his hands kept drifting lower and lower. However, Marigold needed to adore him. He was, after all, her entrée into London nightlife and  _ The Green Mill _ – the newest club in London. ‘The Mill’ already had a reputation for cold gin and the  _ hottest _ jazz in all the West End. At least that was what Gerald had told her when he’d met ‘Marigold’ through a friend of a friend at Lori and Opal’s Pre-Christmas party. Gerald had proceeded to talk of nothing but the new club he was helping to finance, promising to revolutionize London’s club scene. It was a claim too grand not to question.

Questioning claims was what Marigold Drewes was born to do. The moniker was part of Edith’s new  _ nom de plume _ ‘Mauve Gloves’, which was a part of her position as the columnist-editor of  _ The Sketch _ magazine. She’d moved to London not quite six months ago and quickly gone from guest writer to columnist to co-owner and editor of the lifestyle and literary magazine. Her name was becoming fairly well known in London circles. Having a woman as a writer was one thing, but no other major magazine was owned by a lady, let alone a Lady. Her name was well known, but her face was not - at least not yet. For once Edith was grateful her season had been such a categorical failure. Being entirely forgettable when standing next to Mary and Sybil meant that all those wealthy sons and snobbish daughters of the elite had no idea the young woman with the vacant expression and doe eyes was actually the owner of  _ The Sketch  _ and listening to all of their intrigues. The intrigues, the shenanigans, the glamor of the so-called “bright young things” was of growing interest at the moment. For the average reader, there was a certain escapism in hearing about parties too lavish and lush for them to attend, the dramas of the bohemian aristocrat as far removed from their regular life as a novel but updating in real time. And to be sure, some of the set were true characters. 

After the fiasco with Michael Gregson that resulted in Edith’s owner and editorship of  _ The Sketch _ , they desperately needed to attract readers. Poetry and literary reviews were noble, but if they were going to stay solvent, they needed to appeal to the broadest of denominators. And so ever Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday before five Lady Edith Crawley made visits, went to tea rooms and museums, and gathered information enriching things. Thursday evening through Sunday morning Edith rolled down her stockings and rimmed her eyes with kohl, shifting from polite lunches with respectable companions to nightclubs and less savory beaus. It’d only been a month of her double life as Edith/Marigold and she’d already discovered that the engagement of one of page six’s darlings was an utter sham. She’d not even set out to discover that, she’d simply gone to the powder room at the Pony Club with Opal and walked in on both parts of the engagement having a tryst with another man. It had just landed in her lap without any work, she could only imagine what other gossip she might learn if she went looking for it. 

Reminding herself of the potential payoff was the only thing keeping her from breaking Gerald St. George’s fingers as they crept all over her rear. (And if  _ The Green Mill _ didn’t meet expectations, she might clock him anyway). 

“ _ Darling _ , really, I’m getting cold.” It was exactly the middle of the night in the middle of January, the middle of winter. She’d should have considered a different coat, but Gerald had insisted that the walk from  _ Fritz _ ’s wasn’t very far. She’d not bothered to wear a coat to  _ Fritz _ ’s because it was around the corner from her new flat. Living with Aunt Rosamund was a wonderful short-term solution. She’d been an absolute gem when she was too depressed to properly function and been unwavering in her support for first the column and eventually taking over the editorship of  _ The Sketch _ . But being single and living with one’s widowed Aunt (no matter how merry) wasn’t a long-term solution. At least, not for Edith. The first dinner party Rosamund had thrown had her contemplating homicide. And then of course, Rosamund wasn’t quite so understanding when she came home covered in sick and blood after discovering a body or coming home in nothing but a man’s coat after she solved a murder. Plus, it felt like a failure. She was in so many other ways completely independent – making her own money, making decisions that impacted the lives and work of  _ her  _ employees, and yet she went home every night to stay with her Auntie. Rosamund was also pretty happy to have her in her own establishment. Having one’s scandal prone niece hanging about the place did put a damper on social (and extra-social) activities one might wish to hold. 

“I’ll help keep you warm, baby.” Another set of arms slid around her waist; it was everything she had not to jump out of her skin as the second man pressed into her side. Instead she pretended to stumble and forced her shoulder into his breastbone, her elbow connecting just south of his solar plexus. It was enough to get the newcomer to take a step back, making a soft ‘oof’.

“Oops!” She giggled, sounding decidedly drunk (she’d been practicing). “I’m  _ soo  _ sorry, I think I have a teeny, weeny bit too much champagne with dinner!” She’d not, but the plant behind her chair at dinner certainly had. Those poor lilies. Gerald had been pretty committed to getting her properly drunk. Her glass was never allowed to be below half for a moment, he constantly topped her up while only refreshing his own glass maybe every third time. Maybe. The man had tried every underhanded trick in the book to get her drunk. Thankfully she and Lori and Opal had practiced how to spot and subtly defeat each attempt. Plus, Tom and Matthew had taught her some solid self-defense during the two weeks she’d been trapped at Downton over the holidays. 

“Hi, have we met?” She turned to look at the man who’d assaulted her from the rear, the move not only giving her a good look at his face but also putting some distance between her and Gerald St. Bottom-pincher. She stuck her hand out and feigned another round of drunken giggles. “I’m Marigold Drewes.”

“Charlie Albrecht.” She might have had a different opinion about his handshake if her own fingers weren’t so cold, even with the gloves. 

“Charlie is a good friend of mine,” Gerald rumbled, a hand returning to the small of her back. “I thought he’d make a gay third for the evening.” He wasn’t talking about being a wheel. She was going to break both their hands. Tom had showed her how.

“Well, never let it be said that I’d turn down a gay time.” 

.

_ The Green Mill _ , when they eventually got there, was an emerald  _ Pandæmonium _ . Entering the double doors there was first a small foyer with a coat check, past it was a hall, quilted in a harlequin pattern of different shades of green, large mirrors reflecting themselves and the busy walls back and forth between them for all eternity. At the end of the hall there was an arch to the left, opening into a large room made small by crush of people milling about. It was almost too hot after being so cold. At the far end of the room was a stage, the band slowly taking their places after presumably a break in the set. A tall African American woman parting the crowd before her like Moses as she approached the stage, champagne coupe in her hand and an exaggerated sway in her hips. The piano player took a slug from a flask before cracking his knuckles and settling on the stool. Beside the stage, the trumpet player was pulling on a pair of ridiculously large, white angel’s wings.

“I’ll go get us some drinks, be right back.” Gerald disappeared toward the bar almost the moment they stepped into the main room, leaving Mr. Albrecht to try and “guide” her toward a circular booth (his hand fully cupping her right butt cheek). Oooing and ahhing over the gaudy green décor stalled for time, she knew if she got stuck on the inside of the circular booth there would be no escape. 

The décor only emphasized the full, lively atmosphere of the club. Crystal chandlers cast twinkling light over the sequined crowd. The walls were still green, but the harlequin paper had been replaced with a sort of textured toile print, lots of Dutch windmills and tulips repeating over and over and over again until it made one dizzy. The overall dimness of the lights combined with the haze of cigarette (and other sorts of) smoke made much of what she was seeing impressionistic at best. Features of the room and the bodies of the revelers blurring together into one pulsing mass of energy. Except for one.

She’d recognize that posture anywhere.

The height.

The slight stoop of the shoulders as if to apologize for the height. 

The sling. 

But what in all of hell was  _ he _ doing there. 

**#**

There was one thing to be said about the cold weather, he was able to produce some spectacular smoke rings. Sir Anthony Strallan inhaled deeply of his pipe, enjoying the mellow, slightly vanilla flavored smoke. Then he exhaled and a perfect, bold  **O** sailed through the night sky. Midnight. A time better suited to the bright young things flitting around the street than an old codger like him. He would’ve been at home, smoking this pipe in his library with a nice fire and his slippers, if it weren’t for his nieces. The twins, Philippa and Katherine Chetwood (dear Pip and Kit) were twenty-two and finally back on English soil after three years living with their diplomat father in British East Africa ( _ Kenya _ he immediately corrected himself). They wanted a night at the opera to celebrate, complete with a pre-curtain dinner, champagne at intermission, birthday cake and coffee  _ after _ . Even with  _ Carmen _ running ahead (house open to final curtain: three hours and fifteen minutes) they still didn’t make it back to the Chetwood townhouse until eleven. 

Walking home would do him good. Not only because had he eaten more that evening than he had in the past month. But Louisa. Dear little Louie; his baby sister often forgot her place and insisted that she was the one to protect him rather than the other way around. He never once worried about her in the wilds of Africa, she’d eat a Lion before it even looked sideways at her. 

****** After  _ That Day _ he’d fled home, fully prepared to end it all. Not even when he’d been captured at the end of the war was he as prepared to do himself harm as he was that day. The note had been the easy part, he was naturally left-handed (Nurse had beaten that out of him young, but it had been easy enough to learn when there was no other option). The actual follow through, was another thing all together. His arm, his damn blasted – his arm (the doctors really emphasized that if he couldn’t embrace positivity, should at least strive for body neutrality) – had saved him. He’d stumbled and failed. Stewart had found him at his desk, then his note. ******

Stewart had first put a call into a hospital in Scotland that specialized in treating soldiers (the damn, blessed man had been doing some research into this for a while now). The second person he called had been Louisa. The indominable Mrs. Chetwood had made it from Nairobi to just outside of Edinburgh in record time, by every manner of conveyance including a brief flight in an airplane. She’d stayed with him for his first month of treatment, taking care of the small cottage he rented near the treatment center and cooking every night until he and Stewart begged her to stop (Louisa was many things, a chef was not one of them). She would have stayed longer, but in the end settled for regular correspondence from his doctors and Stewart, as well as daily letters from him.

She, he, and the family had all been in London together for three months and she still watched him like a hawk. Anthony blew another circle, this one not quite as defined as his first. The walk and the pipe were necessary. Despite the fact he’d started a new life for himself in London these past three months and was feeling as good as he had in a long time, an evening with Louisa, as beloved as she was, still required all his emotional energy. The hovering. He could understand why she was hovering, but he couldn’t stand being subjected to it. The Doctors had told him when he was feeling overwhelmed, he should try and find some peace. After an evening of being watched over like a hawk, taking the long way home was a necessary breath of freedom. 

Walking also let him clear his mind, blow out the cobwebs like pipe smoke. Letting go of the little things, of the big things, and just being in the moment. Unfortunately, it was when his mind was blank that  _ she  _ tended to sneak in and fill his thoughts. Usually it was just a memory of  _ her _ . Recollections of the times they’d shared. A joke, a moment, a touch. Sometimes he’d catch a whiff of gardenia and her perfume would stay on his mind for days. He’d never heard her voice (outside his nightmares  _ I don’t understand. I don’t understand what you’re saying _ ).

He heard her voice now, clear as a bell. 

“Oops!” She giggled, sounding decidedly drunk. “I’m  _ soo  _ sorry, I think I have a teeny, weeny bit too much champagne with dinner!” He’d recognize that giggle anywhere. It was the laugh  _ she _ made when  _ she _ was supposed to be having fun, but  _ she _ was actually distressed. He’d heard it more than he wanted to during their courtships. He’d vowed when he’d proposed that  _ she  _ would never have to laugh like that again. He’d save  _ her _ from Downton’s special brand of hell where her sister might insult  _ her  _ to  _ her _ face, and  _ she _ ’d have to titter like it was a joke. Where  _ she _ was paraded about at her parents’ whims to be gawped at and then shunted aside like  _ she _ was a mildly interesting piece of art rather than a flesh and blood woman with ideas and opinions of  _ her  _ own. 

He’d recognize that strained giggle anywhere. It was like a dagger through the heart. And for a moment it did kill him, he stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. And then he was alive. More alive than he’d felt in a while, all of his senses on high alert. This wasn’t his imagination,  _ she _ was near. But where?

Eventually he spotted  _ her _ , eight months apart could not alter  _ her _ so much that his heart would not know  _ her _ . Although time had changed her in some ways. A few paces ahead of him and across the street  _ she _ stood, in a dress shorter than ever he’d seen  _ her _ wear, leaning against two men, a sparkling fascinator glittering in the streetlight. He’d set  _ her _ free to find someone young, someone whole, someone  worthy of  _ her _ love. He had no right to be jealous now that  _ she _ clearly had.

Except  _ she _ hadn’t. The men surrounding  _ her _ weren’t worthy in the slightest, the way the pawed at  _ her _ body. And  _ she _ clearly wasn’t free. The set of  _ her _ shoulders was entirely too tense for  _ her _ to be enjoying the men’s company, no matter how  _ she _ tossed  _ her _ head and laughed.  _ She _ was pretending. Quite obviously if one took the time to actually look at  _ her _ . He’d always had that time. He’d seen  _ her  _ when  _ her  _ entire family refused to. And he saw  _ her _ now.  _ She  _ needed help. He had no right to intervene, he’d lost that most disgracefully  _ That Day _ . But he wouldn’t let a stranger be subjected to such predatory behavior, let alone  _ her _ . 

He crossed the street quickly (traffic was surprisingly light on the side road) and followed behind  _ her _ and her companions several paces. He  would intervene but the street was neither well-lit nor populated enough for him to feel confident confronting  two healthy young men with use of all their limbs. At least not without a little more information. 

The trio rambled down the block, eventually ducking through a vivid green door. One of  _ her _ companions holding it open for a gaggle of giggling girls and their goofs. He quickened his pace and was able to catch the door before it fully closed behind the last reveler. 

The cluster of strangers were all at the coat check meaning he could easily get past anyone trying to stand between him and  _ her.  _ Not losing their trail would be important if the nightclub was half as crowded as he feared. 

.

It was, in fact, twice as crowded as he feared. A complete crush of people. Most were packed onto the dance floor at the other end of the room, but it was still shoulder to shoulder at the sleek curvy bar which dominated the wall beside the door. He couldn’t immediately spot  _ her,  _ or her companions and he was tempted to cross his fingers and hope that they were getting a drink rather than heading directly to the dance floor. He wouldn’t have a chance of spotting  _ her _ in that mess of people. 

On the raised dais a band was assembled, a strikingly tall African woman standing in the center. Beside her, shorter by several inches and wearing Angel’s wings for some God known reason, the trumpet player started playing a riff on the Adjunct’s Call. God’s teeth, if he never heard a bugle call again, it’d be too soon. The nature of his work in the war meant he spent most of the conflict not in a unit, but he’d had to endure basic training like the rest of the boys. He was an early riser by nature, but there was still something a little unholy about being pried out of bed by a brass player. 

“Do you hear that playin’?” The singer asked, she had an American drawl, southern from what few Yanks he knew. 

“Yes, I hear that playin’!” the band and several others from the floor shouted back. The bugling continued.

“Do you know who’s playin’?” The call and response continued. 

“No, who is that playin’?”

“Why it’s Gabriel! Gabriel, playin’!” The trumpet player faded back into the rest of the band (still in his ridiculous wings) as the tone switched from call and response to a proper song.

_ Blow, Gabriel, Blow; go on and Blow, Gabriel, Blow. _

Memories of training, memories of the war flashed through his mind, in addition to the over stimulation that the room provided. Faces, some old, others in the room swam about his head and for a moment he was completely paralyzed, unable to move from the doorway. Following  _ her _ had been a bad idea.  _ She _ had a right to  _ her  _ own life, without his intervention. And what intervention could he provide when he felt so off kilter? 

_ I’ve been a sinner, I’ve been a scamp; but now I’m willing to trim my lamp _   
_ So Blow, Gabriel, Blow _

“TONY!” It was  _ her  _ voice calling, although it took him a moment to swim up from the crashing waves of his thoughts and recognize it. It took him even longer still to realize  _ she _ was speaking to  him . The only person who ever called him Tony was Louisa,  and only if she wanted to annoy him. One of the boys at training had tried, but he’d given him such a look the young man didn’t speak to him at all for a week out of fear. But here  _ she _ was in the middle of a crowded nightclub, months after he left  _ her _ standing at the altar, throwing  _ her _ arms around his neck and calling him “Tony,  _ Darling _ !” 

Suddenly he was wrapped in  _ her _ arms, in  _ her _ gardenia perfume,  _ her _ bright red lips against his ear, “Come.”  _ She _ hissed,  _ her _ voice as cold and sharp as a dagger. “With me. Now.” He’d always been aware of the possibility of running into  _ her _ again after  _ That Day, _ but he’d never imagined it would be under these circumstances. 

_ I was low, Gabriel, low. Mighty low, Gabriel, low.  _

_ She _ dropped down from her tiptoes and threaded her arm around his good one. He would have followed  _ her _ anywhere, but with his arm tucked against  _ her _ with vice-like force there was absolutely no doubt.  _ She  _ towed him through the crowd, past the bar, along the edge of the dancefloor, all the while laughing brightly and stumbling slightly like a giggly drunk. And  _ she _ kept calling him Tony. The only person who disliked the nickname more than he did was  _ her.  _ Or at least  _ she _ used to. But then in all the time he’d known  _ her _ , she’d also never been a giggly drunk. The woman on his arm looked like  _ her _ and sounded like  _ her _ but, in the days, and months since  _ That Day _ anything he loved about  _ her,  _ anything he recognized at all, seemed to have disappeared. 

_ But now, since I have seen the light; I’m good by day and I’m good by night _

_ So, Blow, Gabriel, Blow _

**#**

Edith wasn’t entirely sure what she was feeling but there was sure  a lot  of it. Seeing  _ him  _ again, all of it just crashed down on her until she felt like she was drowning. Grasping for anything that might keep her afloat her mind latched onto, perhaps, the least of her worries. If  _ he  _ spoke to her Gerald would know she was a journalist rather than just another flapper. Being outed was not in her plan for that evening. She needed  _ him _ to leave. For a number of reasons. He was standing in the doorway, looking out over the writhing crowd. She was positive he was looking for her, he must’ve seen her on the street and followed.  _ The Green Mill _ was not the sort of place  _ he’d  _ chose to spend  _ his _ evenings. At least she didn’t think anyway, but then, she’d once thought she’d known  _ him _ . She’d trusted  _ him  _ completely and he’d walked right out of the church. Of all the worst-case scenarios she’d dreamt of and feared about her wedding, the groom sprinting down the aisle before the vows had not been on the list. 

So how should she know what  _ his _ ideal evening was? Perhaps  _ he _ went to nightclubs all the time. She’d learned the hard way that even after six years and two courtships there were shades in  _ his _ character she’d been ignorant of. But she had a feeling, down deep in her bones, that he was there for her and only her. 

Which she would feel good about if she didn’t also feel terrible and so so angry she could hardly see straight. How dare _he_? How dare _he? He_ left her at the altar and now _he_ thought _he_ could just walk back into her life?! She cried herself to sleep every night for over a month because of _him_. And God, she just wanted to kiss _his_ stupid fucking face until the stars fell from the sky. She also wanted to scream. She needed to take him in her arms and never see him again. For her own sanity _he_ needed to go. She had to make _him_ go.

“Oh my God, it’s Antonia!” She squealed, pretending to be delighted to see a friend. Gerald and his friend had only one thing on their mind for the night, short of a trip to the loo (a lie she wasn’t ready to deploy yet), the only way she could get a few moments alone would be to pretend to see someone she knew. If she acted vapid and giggly enough, she hoped to deter an escort to say hello to her “dear, dear friend”. Albrecht had feigned interest in her “friend” until she mentioned catching up about wedding details and her trip to the dressmaker’s. He quickly volunteered to help Gerald carry the drinks after that prospect. The moment he looked away Edith slipped into the crowd, heading with purpose toward  _ him. _ She didn’t entirely know what she would do when she got there, but that was a problem for later.

“TONY!” the name tasted so wrong in her mouth. She hated the name, and particularly thought it ill-fitting for  _ him. _ She also knew that  _ he  _ hated the nickname as well. It was a little, petty thing, but  _ he _ deserved it. The last time she’d seen him was seared into her brain and eight months had not blunted it, let alone erased the wild, scared, hurt look in his eyes, his thinner features, the way he’d drawn in on himself. There were still ghosts behind his blue eyes, but he was looking more like the man she had known before the war – his posture less concave, his face fuller, like he was eating properly again. He was in black tie. God above, no man had the right to look that good in black tie.  _ Edie, focus. _

“Tony,  _ darling. _ ” She threw her arms around  _ his  _ neck.  _ He _ ’d not acknowledge her calling “Tony”, probably because he’d not realized she was talking to him, but she had his attention  now . He was stiff as a board as she wrapped herself around him. Stiff as a board and smelling like pipe smoke, old books, and  _ home. _ Downton had been where she grew up, where she had lived, but this man had always been home. Damn him. 

“Come with me. Now.” She surprised herself with how flinty her voice sounded. On the inside she was a soft mess of emotions but outside none of that tumult showed. Perhaps she should take up poker after this performance. When he didn’t move, she tucked her arm through his and drug him toward the back of the club. Away from the crowd and Gerald, someplace they could talk without being seen. 

_ Once I was cited for hell _ _   
_ _ Once I was headed for hell _

No one payed them a first, let alone a second glance as she led him past the dance floor. A giggly, drunk woman fawning over a man was as common as a champagne coupe and gin rickey. So she kept Marigold Drewes’ pretense up. She swayed, she giggled, she fawned over darling Tony as she marched him toward the door. For his part  _ he  _ put up no resistance, meekly following where she led. 

_ But when I got to Satan’s door  _ _   
_ _ I heard you blowin’ on your horn once more _

Past the platform where the band was playing, toward the left, behind a green velvet curtain she found the exit door. It was unlocked and easy to push open onto a dimly lit alley. 

“Come on,  _ Darling,  _ let’s get some air.” She thrust him through the door.

_ So I said, “Satan, farewell!” _

**#**

The moment the back door closed behind  _ her  _ the giggling and swaying stopped. She was stone sober in the blink of an eye. It had all been an act. But why  _ she  _ would want to play a vapid, giggling drunk was beyond him. For a moment there was silence. After how loud and hot the club had been the quiet rang in his ears, late January’s chill making him slightly dizzy. If he were any more disoriented at the moment he’d fall over. Beside him  _ her  _ heels clicked on the pavement. 

Finally, she spoke:

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?”

**#**

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?” It was a fair question, and since she didn’t know where to even begin with  _ him _ or her feelings, it was also the only place she could think to begin.  _ He  _ blinked, shaking himself slightly, his attention seeming to snap back to the moment.  _ He _ opened his mouth once, twice, and finally spoke. 

“I was walking by and saw that you were in distress.” Of course.  _ He _ was here to help because he thought she needed help; he wasn’t here for  _ her  _ herself. She could have been a total stranger and he would have come to her aid. That compassion and sense of right and justice was still there, as much a part of him as those blue, blue eyes.

“Distressed? Hardly.” She’d had everything under control, been preparing for this outing for over two weeks. She was fine. She most certainly was not about to admit to _him_ anything less than that. She was standing on her own two feet. She didn’t need a man to save her, she could save herself. She didn’t need him (even though deep down, she wanted _him_ ). 

“You appeared intoxicated and your companions had their hands all over you, I thought the worst might happen.” His tone was matter of fact and even. She used to love how calm he was, how utterly unflappable. He never ranted and raved like her father had. Oh, he could get excited, and if truly angered he could go off. But it took so much more than a hair to trip that particular trigger. She, on the other hand, had inherited the Crawley temper – her father had it, Rosamund had it, and she had it. 

“So, you plunged in after me, my own Knight-errant. Ready to protect my  _ honor _ .” 

“I wanted to protect  _ you _ , yes. But it seems-”  _ His  _ calmness was making her so inexplicably angry. She was a mess inside, he seemed completely unaffected. How dare he be so  _ CALM _ . What she wouldn’t give to see some sort of emotion from him. Some sign that he was feeling as much as she was.

“You wanted to protect me? Protect me? You gave up that right when you left me at the bloody altar!” The words ripped out of her throat, and god it felt cathartic to say it. To call it out to his face what he had done to her. And then, as soon as she had said it she regretted it. _He_ reeled back from her as if she’d slapped him, his expression broken. Almost as broken as it had been _That Day._ In her rage she had wanted to hurt _him_ , hurt _him_ as deeply as _he_ ’d hurt her, but in practice she felt sick to her stomach watching the light dim in _his_ eyes. For a moment he closed his eyes, took a deep sad breath, and then spoke:

You’re obviously not in the danger I thought you were, I should leave you to your evening, I’ve imposed myself upon you long enough.” He adjusted his coat around him and began to move past her, the mouth of the alley was just a few yards behind her. Before she had a chance to think “Stop him” her hand shot out and grabbed his lapel.

“Oh no you don’t. Don’t you dare.”

“What do you want from me Edith?” Her name soft from  _ his _ lips, like a prayer. And it broke her. A thousand little pieces, too small for her anger to continue to burn. She didn’t want to hurt  _ him _ , not anymore (not ever, not really). What she wanted, more than anything, was to step into  _ his _ chest, feel  _ his _ arm wrap around her - warm and safe - and to pretend that the night had never happened. That wasn’t an option, not anymore.

“I wanted you to marry me!”  _ He  _ flinched but didn’t break away. “But I’ll settle for the truth.”

“The truth?” There was a light next to the club door, a single bulb doing its best.  _ His  _ face was mostly in shadow, but there was still enough light to reflect the confused, scared expression in  _ his _ eyes. 

“Why? Why _Anthony_?” She’d not said his name since she’d screamed it at his retreating figure, begging him to stop, to come back. It tasted like blood in the back of her raw throat. There were tears clawing to get out, but she would not let them. She would not cry. Not now. Not again. “Why let me fall in love with you, why lead me on, on down the aisle only to leave me there – _Alone_! Was the prospect of being married to me so ghastly? Why didn’t you say something earlier if you didn’t want me? That you didn’t love me? Why let me believe you did?” She wouldn’t let her tears pour out of her chest so instead words came, and they didn’t stop coming. Not until she voiced every question, every insecurity she’d had since that awful day.

“It was never a question of loving you, my sweet one-” That name. It stung more than a slap. 

“ _ Don’t you dare call me that _ .”

“Forgive me, My Lady.” They both flinched away like they’d been seared. She looked down at her feet, he past her face over her shoulder. “Forgive me.” He whispered. “It was never a matter of loving you, it was a matter of doing what was best for you.” Her head snapped up. The fire she had thought died out roared into life, hotter and brighter than before. “I love you too much-”

“What’s best for me?  _ What’s best for me?! _ ” She was shouting and didn’t even care, as unladylike as it was. “How the  _ hell _ could you know what’s best for me better than ME! How dare you!” Of all the high handed…Bullshit! Opal had most certainly rubbed off on her, but it was the right word. The gall of him, as much as she loved him. How dare he make a decision about  _ her  _ life  _ for her! _ Her father did that for her entire life, she’d thought  _ he’d  _ be different. He’d  _ seemed _ so different when they were courting.  _ It was a matter of doing what was best for you. _ Bah!

“I was too old for you.”

“You were going to propose to me in 1914, and our age gap wasn’t any smaller  _ then _ !” Her parents had been delighted with him as a suitor before the war, when she’d been twenty and only learning herself and how to have opinions. When they found each other again, and she was older – when she actually  _ chose  _ him for himself - suddenly he was entirely unsuitable. 

“That is completely different.”

She needed to pace, to work off some of the energy she was feeling. It was one in the morning and she was pacing in the back alley of a nightclub at one in the morning with her ex-fiancé/still love of her life. It wasn’t how she’d planned her night going at all. This – as strange as the setting was - this was probably going to be her only chance to get her answers. She didn’t want to lose it. “HOW?!”

“It just-” He was about to say  _ It just is. _ The most non-answer of all non-answers. She wouldn’t let him get away with it. He was also, finally, starting to show some sort of emotion other than calmness and perhaps some vague regret. He’d run his hand through his hair twice now, the blond locks starting to become disheveled. 

“How is it different? It’s still  _ you,  _ it’s still  _ me. _ ” She pushed. He snapped. She should have known it was imminent. He’d loosened his tie. 

“Before the blasted war I was  _ whole. _ Old, yes, but at least I was still intact.” He spat the word, his left-hand clenching into a fist, the muscles in his jaw flexing. He took a deep breath, before continuing with self-conscious softness. “You deserve someone young and healthy and unbroken. Someone who can hold you in both his arms.” Since he came back from the war his arm had always been between them – both literally and metaphorically. And then there was, of course, the myth of the ‘young, healthy, and whole’ man who was supposed to sweep her off her feet.  _ He  _ seemed to believe such a man existed, her father and grandmother were convinced of it also. But Edith was a realist. Setting aside her own feelings regarding who she should marry, she also was well aware of her options. There were no men her age untouched by the war. Hell, there were barely any men her age left alive! She was so sick of people deciding what was best for her, regardless of her opinion on the matter, and she was  _ particularly  _ sick of people deciding a  _ unicorn  _ was what was best. 

“Young, healthy, and whole? Young, healthy, and whole like the not-so-honorable Gerald who made you so concerned for my safety that you followed me?” Her pacing had increased but it wasn’t enough to channel all her feelings into. She had more energy to give, it was crackling through her, she was almost certain she could see it coming out of her fingertips.

“Young, whole men like that  _ ass _ ?! How many men are there like that these days? Everyone went to the war! Matthew came home –  _ with a bruised spine _ ,” She began ticking them off on her fingers, shaking her hand at Anthony as she paced him, “Barrow came home with a mangled hand, William came home long enough to  _ die. _ ” Damnit if she cried now she wouldn’t be able to deny it, she was wearing so much eyeliner and mascara her face would be black. She walked away from him, toward the mess huddle of trashcans at the other end of the alley. She needed to regain her composure, for her cosmetics, if not her pride.  _ William _ . Of all the young men she knew who had gone away and not come home, of all the men she’d nursed at Downton, loosing William had hurt different than anyone else. She inhaled deeply. The stinging cold of the January air in her lungs helped take away, at least for a moment, the ache behind her ribs she always felt when she thought about the War.

Behind her she could hear the crunch of his steps on the pavement. He had taken about three before he stopped, clearly thinking better of coming to comfort her. She was grateful (she didn’t think she could handle being touched) but also completely bereft. 

“You deserve someone better than me.” He said softly. Like that was a valid argument. 

“I deserve a man who loves me!” That was all she wanted, the only thing that mattered to her in the end was a man who loved and respected her. She didn’t care if he was young handsome and whole or if he brought with him huge tracts of land and pots of money and a greater title than Mary would ever have. All she wanted, all she had ever wanted was someone’s love and respect. It hadn’t been the humiliation of her failed wedding that had stung, but the realization that the man she had  _ thought  _ finally gave her the sincere love and respect she craved hadn’t. In the end he hadn’t loved her, he certainly hadn’t respected her to know her own mind and make her own choices. That had stung more than any taunt about her runaway groom. 

Unfortunately, her dramatic turn and declaration was undermined by her footing. She stumbled, catching herself on one of the trashcans enough to keep herself upright, although not gracefully enough to keep the can from tumbling over into its companions, knocking them all to the ground like ten pins with deafening CLANGs. This time he did cross to her side, his hand was at her elbow in an instant, steadying her. He was always good for that. A warm, rock solid presence to keep her upright even when she felt like she was falling. Even now, after she’d yelled at him, doubted him to his face and in her heart. And he was there. 

“Good God.” He was there but he wasn’t paying attention to her. She looked first to his face, and then followed his gaze to the ground behind the now fallen and scattered trash cans. There was a man laying amongst the trash, scarlet blooming across his chest in the way that could only mean one thing. 

“Oh, not again!”

  
  



	3. I'm Good By Day and I'm Good By Night

Sir Anthony hated Detective Fox. No, that wasn’t quite right, he  _ loathed  _ the younger man. With every fiber of his being, he loathed the Detective. Which was pretty impressive, considering that, as a general rule, Anthony did not believe in hating people. But oh, all that racor he tried to be above was coming to the fore now. 

It wasn’t that Fox had done anything in particular to warrant his loathing. In fact he’d been nothing but professional and efficient. Tall, handsome, professional and efficient. The bastard. He’d not done anything to warrant the deep hatred Anthony felt for the younger man, but he was talking to Edith. More than that, Anthony could see even in the dim lights of the alley that the man had a very faint blush across those cut glass cheekbones. He couldn’t blame him for finding her attractive, she was utterly stunning (the red dress with fringe and spangles was uncharacteristic but far, far from unattractive on her - good Lord when she walked you could see a flash of thigh!). What was worse was that Edith also seemed unable to look the man in the eye. 

“We have got to stop meeting like this, Lady Edith.” If it weren’t for the profoundly annoyed tone in the Detective’s voice Anthony would have been certain the man was flirting with his fiancee… ex-fiancee. He needed to remember that, he had no right to complain. He’d begged her to find someone young and whole and worthy of her. If she had then he had absolutely no reason or right to hate the Detective (in fact, he should be deeply amused that if Lord Grantham had thought  _ him _ an inappropriate suitor he was in for a real shock when Edith introduced her new beau). However, his spleen didn’t understand reason. 

“I’m not doing it on purpose, I assure you.” 

“So does this mean that you won’t be taking matters into your own hands this time?”

“You make it sound like it’s my hobby! I only got involved last time because I  _ had to _ .”

“HAD TO?” the Detective spluttered, his eyes bulging slightly, the flush across his cheeks now more likely from anger. “We had everything under control,  _ your meddling _ made everything objectively worse.” After they had called the police Edith had insisted that she wait outside with the body to ‘secure the scene’. He’d offered to wait in her place but she had refused, as if he might run away from the scene of a crime the moment her back was turned (he supposed he deserved the distrust, but really, they’d stumbled on a murder investigation - running would land him on top of the suspects list, even though he’d never seen the man before in his life). Detective Fox and a gaggle of young constables had met them in the back alley. Several of the younger men were now securing the club and beginning the interviews of the patrons while others were carefully documenting every inch of the alley from the body itself to each piece of rubbish Edith’s clumsiness had dislodged from the bins. In the middle of this humming activity the Detective Inspector stood toe to toe with Edith as they argued about something he didn’t know and couldn’t begin to follow. Edith had her fur wrap pulled around her shoulders as tight as possible and was  _ still _ shivering like a small earthquake. There was no way, however, she would go inside, not when Detective Fox was apparently  _ wrong. _ Stubborn woman. 

“Without my  _ meddling _ you’d still be twiddling your thumbs looking for Butcher George!”

“WHAT?” He choked. Of all the things he expected to come out of Edith’s mouth, that was the last of them. He’d read all about the death of Michael Gregson and the subsequent fallout. (He’d started reading  _ The Sketch  _ as his one way to remain close to her, her articles a balm and a knife to the heart every time.) The story of  _ The Sketch _ ’s disreputable editor and the life of crime he and his wife had been embroiled in had been  _ everywhere. _

The Detective and the Lady ignored his outburst, too busy with their argument to deign him with a reply. 

“Yes, because  _ that _ escipade went so well.” Fox fired back. Edith’s body language was blushing, however her actual cheeks were stark white with cold. The tremors were becoming more violent trying to keep her warm. Unable to watch her slowly freeze to death before him, Anthony took his overcoat off. Before he could think about what he was doing he had draped it over her narrow shoulders. Edith jumped like a goosed cat, coming near to hissing at him the instant she realized what was around her shoulders and by whom. It hurt that she wouldn’t accept even the barest kindness from him, but he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. She was rightly furious with him. And, as she had said, he’d given up any claim he had to protect her when he walked out of the church. 

For a brief moment he thought she was going to whip the coat off her shoulders and throw it back in his face. Her eyes certainly told him that she was capable of it - that she  _ wanted _ to do it, but something stopped her. Probably the realization of exactly how cold she was. Instead she let the coat sit where it was, haughtily returning her gaze to the Detective. 

The young constable whom she had greeted by name when he and the DI had arrived (Flowers? Flores?) had skillfully taken advantage of the momentary break in their argument to attract his supirior’s attention. 

“We’ve secured the scene and the club, sir. Hill, Waters, and Snow are ready to begin interviewing the patrons and checking for possible weapons.”

“Very good, Flowers.” The Detective nodded, then turned to the bespeckled man in a rumpled suit that was kneeling beside the body, Anthony had assumed he was the coroner as he had come with the constables. “What do we know, Dr. Bullard?”

“The cold makes time of death difficult to determine at the moment, but my guess is that he’s not been dead more than an hour or so. Stabbed, obviously, the wound appears to be particularly thin, again I will have more details once I have performed an autopsy. But for now I would say that you are looking for a thin stiletto.” The doctor delivered this diagnosis with a cheerful tone tinted with exhaustion. From the neck of his coat Anthony could see a bit of pajama shirt peeking at the collar. 

“Thank you.” Fox nodded to the man before turning back to his constable. “You heard the good Doc, we’re looking for a stiletto, no one is allowed to leave unless they’ve answered your questions and submitted to a search.” The Constable shifted on his feet. 

“Search  _ everyone _ sir?”

“Yes, that would be another way to say no one leaves without being searched.”

“Even the women, sir?” The young man was so flushed his face might have been used as a heater. Detective Fox rolled his eyes with a put upon sigh. 

“Yes, even the women, Constable.”

“But sir, we didn’t call a WPC.”

“That would be because Miss Ritter is currently unavailable. Do you best - be polite and professional. They aren’t going to bite you.” The young PC looked skeptical, but followed orders, gathering his peers and heading into the Club. 

“If you need a WPC, I could-” Edith began, but Fox shut her down with a hand and a half amused, half annoyed look.

“I thought you said this wasn’t your hobby.”

“It’s not! But did you look at Constable Flowers? The poor boy looked terrified!”

“The ‘poor boy’ is terrified of women. The only thing he’s worse at than talking to them is making a cup of tea - and practice is the only way to remedy either problem.” Edith studied the other man for the moment. Anthony could see he had a point, as loathed as he was to admit it. Detective Fox, as far as he could tell, was a good and responsible officer of the law, chisel sharp jawline notwithstanding. 

“If you say so.” She huffed. Fox was clearly about to say ‘I do.’ but she continued, cutting him off. “Rather than submit myself to be ‘practice’ I’ll just save us all some trouble and tell you now, I’m carrying a knife.”

“You’re  _ what?! _ ” Both Anthony and Detective Fox yelled as Edith reached into her skirt parting the fringe that made it until her thigh and garters were exposed to her hip. Fox turned bright red and turned around, Anthony found he had the opposite reaction, he was completely unable to look away from the swath of skin now exposed to the elements. Resting against the inside of her thigh, slipped into the garter strap was an ivory and silver switchblade. Removing it from her garter, the fringe fell over her legs once again and she tapped Fox on the shoulder. 

“My handbag wasn’t big enough for a brick.” She told him with a knowing smile. “So we thought this would be the next best thing for personal defense.” She flicked the switch open, with some skill, and revealed a gleaming, clean, nine inch stiletto. Fox’s eyes bulged slightly, and Anthony completely agreed with that reaction. It was so incongruent to see Edith, his Edith, holding a rather expensive automatic knife with an easy confidence. Since when did she start handling switchblades? Had he missed this particular interest? 

“Where on earth did you get that? Do you even know how to use it?” Fox demanded, giving voice to questions Anthony had but knew he’d never get an answer to if he were the one to ask them. 

“Christmas present from my brother-in-law. And of course I know how to use it! How reckless do you think I am?!” Anthony had always thought Robert was overreacting with prejudice when he railed that Mr. Branson was a bad influence on his children. But looking at the knife in Edith’s hand, he couldn’t help but concede that the Earl might have a small point. (He at least assumed it was Mr. Branson behind the...unique present. For the life of him the Baronet could not imagine Matthew Crawley purchasing such a gift for his cousin). 

Detective Fox gave Edith an extremely pointed look but refrained from answering her affronted question. Instead he took the blade from her and examined it carefully. 

“Clean.” He declared, folding the black back and handing it over to her. “If you were concerned for your personal safety you could have just not gone to a rather notorious gin palace...with questionable company.” He cast a very accusatory look over at Anthony. He could feel himself bristle. He was many things but not a threat,  _ never _ a threat to her. Edith followed Fox’s eyes.

“I didn’t come with  _ him _ .” She said icily. Fox’s expression changed, subtly then, his eyes sharper as he looked at him, then turned to look at the overcoat, still draped over Edith’s shoulders. She noticed his uncertainty and dispassionately clarified. 

“Sir Anthony is a neighbor from Yorkshire. We happened to run into one another right before we found-” She gestured to the body. “A neighbor” not even “an old friend” or a “friend of the family.” He supposed he deserved that, leaving her at the altar was hardly ‘friendly’, but still, it hurt. 

“And you decided to have your little reunion in the back alley?” Fox gave her a skeptical look. 

“I’ve disclosed my weapon, my I go inside and warm up while I wait to give my statement?” She smoothly ignored the question, every inch her grandmother’s granddaughter in that moment. Fox looked at her, taking in not only the haughty tilt of her head but also her pale, cold features and nodded.

“You certainly know the drill by now.”

**#**

She had been so cold that the warmth of the club was almost painful. Edith flexed her fingers experimentally, wincing as she felt the joints grind and creak. The pins and needles sensation of circulation returning was enough to make her see stars. Her cold feet were particularly graceless and she stumbled into  _ him _ .

“You’re like ice!” The man always had a way of stating the obvious. Her cross, wry thoughts distracting her for a moment. It took her nearly a minute before she realized he was holding her right hand. His thumb rubbing quickly over the back of her hand. She knew in that instant that if he had the use of both of his hands they would be working vigorously over her hand trying to work the circulation back into her extremities. He shivered slightly under her gaze but didn’t stop trying to warm her hand. He was  freezing .

_ He _ hated being cold. She remembered that even before the war he disliked being chilled. then it had often manifested in mild grumbling with plenty of jokes ‘why on earth did he live in England when he hated the cold and he hated being wet?’. After the war the cold meant something different to him. He never said it - he rarely said anything about his experience - but she could read it in his eyes. The haunted look and dull pain he could never quite hide, at least not from her. 

A rush of sympathy and affection swelled within her. Her poor man. 

_ No. _

**_NO._ **

_ Damnit Edith Violet! _ Her mind yelled at her. Not ‘your poor man’, this is the same bastard that played you all the way to the altar. She shook her head, violently dislodging those ‘poor darling’ thoughts. There would be none of that while she was still mad at him. 

He shivered again. 

There would be no ‘poor darling’, but she also couldn’t bring herself to let him suffer. She took his coat from her shoulders and handed it back to him. The action was the best choice for a number of reasons, she justified to herself after the fact. He had to drop her hand and she could step away from him, the distance was most welcome because the heat from his chest and the smell of him - aftershave and pipe smoke and  _ home _ and  _ right _ and  _ love and oh God! _ Her thoughts were racing. Wearing his coat was a little too intense given her agitated state. Giving it back to him was best for her and would warm him up again. 

“Are you certain?” He asked, even in the dim light his eyes were the bluest thing she’d ever seen. They took her breath away, even now, and she could only nod. 

**#**

It was 4:30 ante meridian before they were allowed to leave _ The Green Mill _ . Four hours after the discovery of the body (identified at the scene both by his wallet and dance partner as Lionel Wellington, semi-professional club dancer, employed by the Mill and a few other jazz clubs), and about six hours after the time she really wanted to be going to bed. She was beyond tired. One of the many interesting turns her life had taken since assuming the editorship of  _ The Sketch _ was her ability to stay up. Or rather her ability to sleep in, which subsequently impacted how late she could stay awake. Being in the office at nine meant there was no more sleeping until nearly noon. All this meant she turned into a pumpkin by midnight if she didn’t have some sort of stimulant (her coffee consumption was another unintended consequence of full-time employment). 

She was so tired that she didn’t raise more than a token protest when  _ he _ insisted on seeing her home and bundled her into a cab. 

“Where to?” The question snapped her out of her exhausted stupor. Although she wanted her bed like she wanted her next breath, she wasn’t quite ready to share her home with  _ him. _ Not when she was so raw and unsure of her own feelings. She couldn’t risk breaking down and inviting _ him _ in. The idea was there in the back of her mind. She’d missed _ him  _ so much, she never wanted to be parted from  _ him  _ again. At the same time she couldn’t look at him without feeling the  hurt of their failed wedding. Until she slept and processed just exactly what she felt and what she wanted, until she had herself together she’d have to play it safe - and her bed would have to wait. 

She gave the cabbie  _ The Sketch _ ’s address and resolutely ignored the queriering eyebrow he sent her. For the first time in her life she was her own woman, a little privacy and a little mystery were her prerogative. She sat back and allowed the rocking of the automobile lull her into a light sleep. 

“Edith?” too soon they were outside the magazine office.  _ His  _ hand was large and warm on her shoulder up until the moment it was gone - as soon as she opened her eyes. His ears were faintly pink and she gave brief thought to what she must’ve done while asleep to make him blush. 

“Don’t you want to go home?” He asked, eying the dark doors of the office building, she could see how his teeth chewed the inside of his cheek, biting back whatever it was he really wanted to say. She shook her head.

“Too much to do.” It wasn’t even a lie. Trying to get  _ The Sketch _ magazine secure was more than a full time job, money was still tight and the staff was minimal. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” He frowned at her, wiping the wry smile she felt like bestowing right off her face. 

“That’s hardly reassuring.”

“I’m no longer in the business of reassuring you, Sir Anthony.” She snapped back. For what felt like at least the tenth time he looked as if she’d slapped him. 

“You’re right, and it was never my place to tell you how to live.” His voice was so soft. “Good night, Lady Edith.” 

She knew as sure as she knew her own name that he was waiting until she was safely inside the office before instructing the cab to continue one. Which posed a slight problem… Usually she kept her keys on one ring - house, office building, her office, the car, a spare key to Aunt Rosamund’s home. However that rattling mess would never have fit in her very slim purse, so she’d taken her house key off the ring and attached it to the ribbon lead inside the clutch, leaving the remaining keys on her side table at home. 

Thankfully Giles, the night doorman (and security guard) was in the foyer. He opened the door for her with a confused but amiable smile.

“My Lady! You’re in awful late, or at this point would you consider it early?” His lilting Welsh accent grounding her in her present, not her past. She managed a warm smile.

“Inspiration strikes when it strikes.” He held the door open for her and she quickly stepped through into the warm building. “When needs sleep when there’s an article to be written?” He looked her up and down before peering out to the curb, where the cab slowly pulled away, Anthony’s silhouette crossing the window like a dark shadow. 

“That’s one way to do it, I suppose.” He shrugged. “Good luck with that article, ma’m.” He gave her a nod as she headed for the stairs. 

**#**

Getting in the front door had been the first challenge, the second came in the form of the main office door. If she’d been more awake she’d have asked Giles to come up and unlock it with his master key, but alas and alack. And the idea of doing the stairs, again, in her going out shoes didn’t appeal to her in the slightest. With a sigh she reached up into her hair. Granny had always sniffed that London was a corrupting force if one spent too much time there, and to be fair, she didn’t know how to pick a lock when she lived at Downton. However, she had learned how to throw a punch in the country (the 26th had been a literal boxing day last year). 

She wasn’t nearly as profficent a lockpick as Opal was, but she eventually got the office door open. Her own office door would pose less of an issue as Opal kept a spare key in the pencil drawer of her desk. Once inside her own office she let herself relax for the first time that night. With a watery sigh she sank onto the cream colored chaise she’d installed where Gregson’s massive oaken bar had dominated the room. Without the tension keeping them in her tears flowed freely, sliding down her cheeks to drip off her chin, dragging her mascara along with them. Not that she cared. It was a relief to cry and she let it wash over her until there was nothing else for her to give. Wrung out and mellow from the catharsis she drifted off to sleep, her stocking feet hanging off the edge of the lounge. 

**#**

“You look like shit.” She was not pulled from her nightmare easily, She was dreaming of  _ That Day. _ And considering Mary was standing before her, in Edith’s wedding dress and claiming that she was wearing it better, the line was easy enough to accept as something her elder sister might say. Except Mary never spoke with Opal’s voice. It was that disparity that finally jogged her from sleep with a start.

“Ugh?” she grunted. Edith’s eyelids felt like sand, but she eventually opened her eyes. Opal stood over her, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in judgement. Behind her Lori leaned against the office door, long legs crossed in their customary tweed trousers.

“Quite the night last night, hm?” Edith sat up slowly, she had a headache trying to press her eyes out of her skull. She’d not triggered a headache from crying since… well, since her actual wedding. The toss pillow she’d slept on had a perfect copy of her ruined makeup on the cream fabric and she cringed. Not only could she see just how smeared her face was, but how was one supposed to get mascara and lipstick out of cotton-linen? 

“What are you doing here?” Had she slept all through Sunday and it was now Monday morning?

“You were supposed to call us, remember, when you said you were going out  _ alone _ with Gerald St. George, you promised you’d call us when you got home, no matter how late.” The original plan was that Opal, Lori, and Edith (Marigold) would join Gerald and his friends at his new club, but then Lori’s poor aunt passed away. With Lori staying in Hammersmith with her family and Opal there was a good partner should be, new plans had to be made. Even with Edith’s questionable instincts and taste in men, she had seen the red flags that dominated St. George’s personality. However, he had been annoyingly unwilling to find another time to give her a behind the scenes experience at  _ the Mill. _ Flying solo was not the solution any of them had liked but it was what she wound up agreeing to. Their safety contingencies had included a stiletto in her garter belt, practice at staying sober while appearing drunk, and of course, calling to check in. Which she had forgotten in all the chaos of discovering her ex-fiancee and a dead body in a back alley. (She wasn’t sure how she did it, but Edith was half convinced she’d managed to anger Apollo at some point in her life to have luck so bad so consistently). 

“You were supposed to call, but you didn’t. So we thought, oh maybe she forgot, so we called Mrs. Lawrence and you know what she told us?  _ Lady Edith isn’t home and it doesn’t look like her bed’s been slept in at all! _ ” Opal Larson did not get angry very often, but when she did - oh, it was breathtaking. It was too bad those eyes, spitting hellfire, were directed at her. “We thought Jack the Ripper had gotten you!” Edith rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, there was no way her makeup could get any worse.

“You immediately thought of my gruesome death and not that, oh I don’t know, found some muscle-bound hunk and spent all night having a torrid affair?” there was a beat and then both Opal and Lori were howling with laughter. (She chuckled as well, stopping well before they did, the bi-). “It could’ve happened!”

“No, sweetie, it couldn’t have. That’s not who you are.” Lori eventually composed herself, eventually. “But it is a sign of our faith in you, that while we worried the worst had happened, we first decided to check the office before calling that Detective Fox to report you missing.”

“I’ve already seen Fox, he could have told you I was fine.” Edith yawned and stretched. There was a time when she could sleep in a laundry basket, and now her joints sounded like snapping twigs. She was much too young to feel so damn old. 

“Wait...what?” That sobered Opal’s teasing.

“Where did you see Fox? He doesn’t strike me as the type to trip the light fantastic.”

“It was after I tripped over a dead body behind the  _ Mill _ .”

“Another one?!” Lori groaned.

“It’s not like I go out looking for them!” Edith protested. 

“What on earth were you doing in the back alley of the club?” Opal questioned. 

“Oh, you know, having a friendly little catch up with my husband-that-wasn’t.” God, she was hungry. It was making her techy. Dinner, despite being so late, now felt like years rather than hours ago. 

“Wait, WHAT?”

_ “He  _ was at the club?” After seeing her naked and sharing a near-death experience, it had made sense to tell her new best friends the truth (emptying a bottle of grand marnier had helped as well). Rather than pity her they had rallied to her side, declaring that if she couldn’t hate the man they would do it for her. 

“Bloody hell.” Lori pushed off the door frame to come and stand beside her partner. “You need a drink and to tell us  _ everything. _ ”

“About seeing him or the dead body?”

“Both.” Opal and Lori said in perfect unison. Edith’s stomach growled and she sighed. There was no escaping any of last night now that it was morning. 

“Throw in breakfast and I’ll tell you anything you ask.”

  
  



	4. Once I was Headed for Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some passing reference to self-harm and suicidal intentions toward the end of this. Also canon typical internalized ableism throughout. 

Edith was not an old woman by any measure, but she wasn’t a young one either. Just how  _ not young _ she was had been made imminently clear to her as it took  _ all _ of Sunday to recover from her long night. In fact it was Monday morning and she was still feeling a little tender. The emotional hangover was worse than anything alcohol threw at her, but having both was making her stomach slightly queasy. 

“Are you feeling alright?” Opal asked, peering at her critically over her pince-nez and cup of industrial strength coffee (for she knew no other way to make it. Edith had started making coffee at the office because she couldn’t stomach more than half a cup of Opal’s brew and dumping the remainder in her plants were starting to make them brown).

“Fine.” She answered too quickly. “I’m too old for shenanigans, it would seem. Which is disappointing since I did not have as much fun as this feeling suggests.” Opal nodded sagely. 

“Well, I think I know how to cheer you up.” Every Monday since Edith had taken control of  _ The Sketch _ and made Opal her right hand they held a meeting - they went over the progress from the previous week and set goals for the upcoming one. The previous week had been a productive one, thankfully, considering getting the wheels turning after the New Year had been slow work. Edith even felt something like hope that the upcoming edition might actually look intentional rather than as slapdash as previous magazines had been. 

“Oh?”

“I have the file about the body you found.” Opal held up a manila folder, “and you’ve had a letter.” She held up the cream envelope with the other hand. From between her fingers Edith could see her own name written. She could recognize _ his  _ handwriting like he was speaking her name - the letters were clear, if narrow. Tall and proper, but not taking up undo space. 

“I’ll take the murder file.” Opal smirked, 

“I thought you said this wasn’t your hobby.”

“It’s not.” She asserted firmly while flipping open the file. 

_ The body of Lionel Wellington (42) was found dead behind the nightclub  _ The Green Mill  _ by patrons [ _ names redacted _ ]. Wellington was stabbed by a thin blade, the murder weapon not found. The stiletto missed the heart but pierced Wellington’s vena cava. According to the coroner the time of death was between 11pm and 1am the night of Saturday, 29 January 1921. Wellington was employed by  _ The Green Mill _ as a dancer along with Sally Mason. He and Mason also danced at other clubs, including  _ The Blue Dragon, The Parrot Club  _ and  _ Vardi’s. 

Below the write up Wellington’s address was listed and Edith did a double take. 

“Are you certain of this address?”

“I got it from the police, so yes. Why?” 

“This address isn’t too far from my aunt in Belgravia. I looked at flats in Pimlico. Real Estate prices are like a punch in the gut.”

“That explains the wad of cash in his personal effects.” Below the write up and address was a list of Wellington’s effects. Bespoke three piece suit (she recalled it being flashy rather than fitted, but then she had been a bit distracted by the large amount of blood covering most of it), size thirteen brogues, engraved cigarette case, matching lighter, wrist watch, keyring with one key (presumably house) and one thousand pounds cash, rolled with a rubber band in varying denominations from five to one hundred.

“You’re kidding!” 

“I am not, I flirted that information out of a wet-behind-the-ears constable myself!” Opal looked vaguely affronted at the suggestion - or perhaps the fact she had to flirt with one of Detective Fox’s constables to get the information. Opal Larson had many and varied interests, but men were not one of them. 

“What the hell was the man doing with over a year’s worth of salary in his pocket at a nightclub?”

“Pffft, try eight years worth of salary.”

“Alright, what’s he doing with eight years worth of cash in his pocket at a nightclub?”

“Obviously something illegal.” Opal leaned back in her chair as she rolled her eyes, as if it was the most self-explanatory thing ever. And perhaps it was. Of anyone on Fleet Street Edith should be aware of the illegal dealings people got up to while maintaining a perfectly lawful, charming veneer. Afterall, the original owner-editor of  _ The Sketch _ , who’s office Edith was in the process of redecorating at that very moment, Michael Gregson, had been juggling multiple extramarital affairs while skimming an absurd amount of cocaine off the top of his perfectly respectable wife’s drug ring. Uncle Marmaduke’s younger brother, Peregrine, had been intimately involved with one of Mrs. Gregson’s associates, who had been responsible for distribution of the cocaine, as well as an accomplice to several murders, including the death of Michael. Madam Moreau had sat two seats down from Aunt Rosamund just days after the poisoning of Gregson and pretended to extend her condolences. Moreau and Mrs. Gregson had also tried to murder her and Opal in a sauna. Crime should be an obvious answer based on Edith’s brief time living in London. 

“Okay, Opal  _ Poirot _ , if the motive for Wellington’s murder was his involvement in something illegal, why didn’t whomever killed him take the money?”

“Maybe someone interrupted them before they could riffle his pockets? Do you remember anyone else being in the alley when you drug  _ him _ out there?” She didn’t, but then again, she had been so focused on the maelstrom of emotions seeing  _ him  _ again had stirred up that she could have walked by a hundred people and not noticed. 

“I didn’t see anyone else when I was out there. It wasn’t exactly an inviting place to be either, nothing there except for the rubbish bins, the door on the building opposite, a few windows. Gosh, what wretched views those flats must have.”

“Maybe someone at the window interrupted them? Or maybe the money wasn’t the motive, perhaps it was revenge?” Mrs. Gregson had murdered her husband for his infidelity and constant use of the cocaine they were supposed to be selling, although the monetary aspect didn’t seem to be quite as powerful as the sheer anger she felt toward her husband.

“Maybe he was having an affair?” He was certainly not her type, but then, she had very specific tastes (very specific - one tall, blue eyed baronet with a lopsided grin and rather dry sense of humor). Although, hadn’t Michael Gregson pulled  _ numerous  _ women while being only slightly more handsome than average? And if the man was any good as a dancer… well, it was easy to get swept off one’s feet with a good dancer. “A cuckold husband is an excellent murder suspect.”

“Are you sure this isn’t your hobby?” Opal’s cupid’s bow mouth was set in a  _ very _ amused smile. 

“It’s not! But a tale of love, revenge, and murder in a glitzy nightclub is the sort of thing that will sell magazines.”

“Or a penny dreadful,” Opal stood. “Alright, Miss Mauve Gloves, what’s your next move?” Edith drummed her fingers on her desk for a moment, thinking through her options - and her schedule - before speaking:

“I’m going to meet with Roger, then pop out for a bit to see if anyone lives with Mr. Wellington. Then tonight I’ll have to call the-less-than-Honorable St. George and see if “Marigold” can get any details out of him.” Opal nodded and placed  _ his  _ letter in her inbox tray. 

“Sounds like a plan, I’ll see if I can find you contact details on his dance partner, Miss Mason.”

.

With Opal out of her office and the door firmly shut behind her Edith finally allowed her attention to fully turn to the letter on her desk. He’d written her. Eight months after  _ That Day _ and he finally decided to write.  _ Hurmph! _ She was tempted, very tempted, to just crumple the thing up, unread, and lob it in the trash. Or maybe take it home, light a nice fire, put a record on and watch it burn as she enjoyed the remainder of a very nice bottle of claret. Fire was very cleansing in that way. 

In the end she did neither of those things, but rather carefully placed the envelope, unopened, in her handbag and went down to her meeting with Roger Darling, the art director and the other co-owner. 

**#**

Edith checked the small notebook she kept in her handbag where she had written Mr. Wellington’s Pimlico address. His home was on the end of a row of semi-detached homes, one side bordering an alley, the other shared with a matching home, mirror images. Both were narrow with three floors and bright white plaster. Gorgeous and expensive as they looked.  _ There is no way Lionel Wellington was  _ just  _ a dancer.  _ How on earth was he bankrolling this? Did he have family money behind him, like she had? Or a rich wife like Michael? Or was he involved in something illegal? But there was no way dancing in a nightclub could pay half the rent on the place.

A soft crash followed by cursing jarred her from her thoughts. Carefully she backtracked from the front of the house to the alley and was able to see two tweed clad legs kick about and then disappear through the window. There was a fire ladder beside the window the legs slid through, a sprinkling of glass on the ground. 

If there were anyone home there should be screaming by now. Whomever was attached to those legs had broken the window to get in. That wouldn’t go unnoticed. Edith waited. 

Nothing. 

Not a peep from the house. 

Edith looked up the ladder. Well, she couldn't answer her original questions but she was coming up with all kinds of new ones. 

Climbing a ladder was infinitely easier than a fence, although she was still wearing the wrong clothes for it. Her heels skidded on the rungs but she made it up to the second floor window without stepping her skirt off or having it rip. Getting to the window required a bit more athletics, but thankfully whomever broke the window had knocked loose the remaining glass when they crawled through. Other than a nasty looking piece hanging from the top of the pane, it looked safe enough. 

Swinging herself over to the ledge was the easy part, but leveraging herself all the way…

.

Constable Flowers slowly rolled the car down the alley, David had first thought he was being overly cautious as he tried to park. And then he saw the legs.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” While he had managed to see more of Lady Edith Crawley than he ever thought he would (or ever would want to) and even though the moment was seared into his mind, David was only 85% certain that he recognized the legs flailing out of the second story window. But 85% was enough for him when placed in the context of doing something incredibly stupid, reckless, and illegal. 

“Do you think that’s…”

“Lady Edith Crawley’s lower half hanging out of that window, then yes.”

.

“Uff!” she landed headfirst in the room, gracelessly. 

“Jesus!” From the heap she landed in she managed to to look up and see the trousers she followed in. They were a part of a well cut suit draped over a young man, his eyes wild with surprise. “What are you doing?” Carefully she picked herself up from the ground, getting her feet beneath her and her skirt arranged properly. 

“Followed you, this isn’t the front door?”

“What?! NO!”

“Oh, our mistake then.” Brushing the dust off her skirt gave her a few moments to gather her thoughts and take in her surroundings. She was standing in what was clearly an office. The office of a man she did not know. She’d just broken into a house. Again. 

“What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here!” 

“Neither are you.” It was Detective Fox’s voice and Edith felt her stomach drop to her feet and start digging a hole.  _ At least I’m fully clothed this time,  _ she thought wryly. Fox in the flesh appeared in the doorway, behind him she could see the gangly Constable Flowers. “Breaking and entering,  _ again _ , Lady Edith? This is becoming a habit.”

“I’m not entirely sure twice qualifies as a habit.” Fox gave her a withering look. “Anyway, I didn’t break the window, so it was really just entering. I was following my friend here, Mister, um….” The young man’s eyes were now even wilder with surprise and fear. He clutched a folder to his chest like it might shield him from everything, including (or perhaps especially) Detective Fox. For a moment the man didn’t speak, although it was his cue. And instead just stared at them all with eyes as round as saucers behind wire framed glasses. His eyes were so large that she could see the wheels turning inside his brain. He was trying to figure out if he could run and was quickly realizing that he couldn’t. Eventually he sighed and visibly slumped.

“Jones, Sullivan Jones. I wanted to retrieve some of my property that Wellington was... keeping.”

“Right.” Fox intoned, drawing out the first syllable. He then crossed the room in two long legged strides and wiped the folder from Jones’ hand before the bespeckled man recognized the advance. 

Hey! That’s mine!” Jones protested, reaching for the file. Fox, however, sidestepped the man and Flowers was quickly on him, wrapping each wrist in an iron bracelet. 

“I don’t believe it is.” Fox flicked open the file and pulled out a strip of film negatives. Holding it up to the light Edith was able to see what was captured, although not very well. There were two figures on the flim in a series of interesting positions, she took a step closer and... _ oh bugger _ . Quite literally. The figures were indeed doing what she thought they were doing. She didn’t mean to gasp, but it just slipped out. Even growing up surrounded by farms she’d not seen anything quite so vivid before, and the Lord knew the talks she’d received before her wedding had never discussed  _ that _ position. 

Fox quickly dropped the negative, coughing and clearing his throat loudly, his cheeks and ears blushing a violent shade of red. He looked at her wide eyed alarm before turning his attention to Jones.

“Sullivan Jones I am arresting you for the murder of Lionel Wellington.”

“What?”

“Nooo,” Jones moaned, “I swear, I didn’t do it!”

“Clearly he was blackmailing you and you and your...accomplice had enough. You stabbed him behind  _ The Green Mill _ and are now here to retrieve the evidence.” Flowers began leading the man away. Edith could understand the logic, blackmail was a good motive for murder, but she couldn’t exactly picture the broken, scared man in a three piece tweed suit before her as a cold blooded killer. 

There was no way she could report on the case now. Even if Jones didn’t kill Wellington, if the nature of the blackmail got out he would still go to prison - or worse. She wouldn’t do that to him. She couldn’t. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Fox’s hand darted out as she started to head out of the office. He caught her upper arm in a firm hand.

“Out?”

“Oh no, you’re also coming down to the station. I’m charging you with breaking and entering. I told you Lady Edith, this isn’t a novel.” Normally Edith had strong feelings about women who swooned but she could honestly feel all her blood leaving her brain.  _ Arrested _ . She’d gotten arrested...She’d even gotten arrested for breaking and entering. Her father would skin her alive for being arrested, but at least if it was in pursuit of something else, something more worthwhile and less bloody stupid she’d accept the tanning. 

.

Edith had fallen in love with cars after her first ride in the Rolls. Since that first ride, she’d learned to drive, and made a point of checking out any conveyance with wheels and a petrol engine. She’d driven a tractor, a harvester, a Rolls, a Renault, and was looking into getting a Hispano Suiza as a birthday present to herself. She’d never been in the back of a police van before, or any van for that matter. It was just as bleak as she imagined. Fox handed her into the back as if she was getting in the front seat, which was a bit ironic considering he’d put cuffs on her. It was also helpful, she’d not appreciated how much her balance was impacted with having both hands bound in front of her.

Sullivan Jones sat, folded in on himself, his face absolutely ashen. This was not the face of a killer. This was the face of a man about to lose his lunch. There was just something about him that needed to be comforted. He was like a lost tweed wearing, nearsighted puppy. She just wanted to stroke his hair and tell him it was going to be alright. 

“I don’t think you killed Lionel Wellington.” Jones’ head shot up. “I want to help you, but you need to tell me everything.”

“Wellington was blackmailing us, but I swear I didn’t kill him. You have to believe me.”

“I do.” She assured him. Edith could appreciate wanting to keep mum considering he was facing a prison sentence with or without a murder charge, but this wasn’t telling her everything. “Who’s your...friend? Where were you when Wellington died? Can anyone confirm it? Was he blackmailing anyone else? How did he even get a video of ...you?”

“I don’t know!”

“What about your friend? You know Fox is going to immediately try and track him down, if you tell me who he is I might be able to warn him.” Fox couldn’t keep her locked up, even with a breaking and entering charge, they way he could lock up Jones. She could warn the other man and perhaps get more information out of him, being handcuffed in the back of a police vehicle was rather distracting Jones from any pertinent information. 

“You won’t tell the Detective?” He gave her a hard stare, it might even have been intimidating if he wasn’t on the verge of crying. 

“I won’t tell another soul, let alone the police. I promise. Why would I help Fox, he’s locking me up too?”

“You two seem friendly.”

“I assure you, we’re not.” Jones took a deep breath. 

“His name is Frederick Charles Wilentz. Freddy and I, we were at  _ the Mill _ the night Wellington died. He’d been demanding money from us for three months now, he always said it’d be the last payment, we always told ourselves it was the last payment, but it never was. He wanted five hundred pounds this week. I had to sell my car, we were desperate but what could we do?”

“Well someone last night thought that murder was a viable option.”

“Well, it wasn’t us!”

“Alright, so you paid Wellington that night at the club, when was that?” 

“I don’t recall exactly. It was toward the end of the band’s first set. He came over between dances.” He pushed his glasses up awkwardly. 

“When did you leave? And where did you go after?”

“We left right after. He and his dance partner got into a real domestic, caused a huge scene - he cracked her right across the cheek. We scampered. I went home, Freddy went to another party, some ghastly thing his sister was putting on.”

“Did anyone see you go home? Flatmate? Housekeeper? Tramp on the street?”

“No, I live alone.” 

“Blast.” Edith took a deep breath. “Do you think he was blackmailing anyone else?” If he’d gotten five hundred pounds out of Jones and Wilentz, that only accounted for half the bills in Wellington’s pocket. 

“Absolutely. He was always skulking around the clubs.” Too many suspects. It was beginning to sound like it would be easier to name people who didn’t want to do Lionel Wellington harm. 

**#**

The booking in process was a supremely tedious one. Not nearly as humiliating as she thought it would be, or perhaps the shame was blunted by the tedium. She had to spell her name so many times for the forms by the end it seemed completely foreign and wrong. She had to be weighed and measured and her fingerprints firmly taken, she would undoubtedly have ink stains in her gloves. And then she had to sit and wait. And wait. And wait. She understood that Sullivan Jones was the murder suspect and thus needed to be processed quickly and put into a cell immediately, but it had been over an hour now since she had been brought into the station. The wooden bench the Constable had led her to after taking her photo was growing increasingly uncomfortable for her tailbone and lower back. Edith fidgeted in her cuffs. They weren’t as tight as she knew they could be, and she was grateful for that. Absently she brought her thumb across her palm to her ring finger, making her hand as small as possible, like she was taking off a rigid bracelet. Really, Constable Waters was entirely too nice, the cuff was halfway up her hand…

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Edith opened her hand quickly, forcing the cuff back down to her slim wrist.

“...Nothing.” She looked up at Fox, from the quirk of his eyebrow it was clear he didn’t believe her for a moment. 

“With me, please.” His voice was stern and business like, but he also offered her his hand and she used it to leverage herself up, her back popping deep in her lumbar. Carefully she followed him to the back of the station, past the clutch of desks were young Constables sat sort of focusing on the paperwork on their desks, to his private office. Opening the frosted glass door he ushered her inside and then closed the door partially behind him. 

“Have you finished charging me yet? Not to make light of it, but I would like to go home.” Fox gave her one of his signature stern looks as he took her wrists in his hand and began unlocking the cuffs.

“What did Jones say to you in the back of the police van?” He pocketed the cuffs and placed their key in his top desk drawer as Edith circled her wrists, happy for full range of movement once again. 

“What makes you think he’d tell me anything?” Playing dumb was something that rackled her, deep down to the bottoms of her feet. She  _ was not _ dumb. However, as she got older, she realized that sometimes a moment of stupidity was useful. With cultivated ease she let any pretense of intelligence drop away from her gaze and left it vapid and void. She tilted her head slightly and blinked, twice, dramatically, for added effect. Fox glanced up from his seat and visibly winced. 

“Don’t do that!” He huffed. “I might have bought that ‘I’m just a foolish aristocrat’ act when we just met, but since then you’ve done nothing but meddle, stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong, and tell me how to do my job.”

“Meddle? I  _ solved _ your case for you.” Fox’s expression momentarily looked like he’d bitten into a lemon, but quickly it was replaced with his neutral mask of professionalism. He offered her the chair opposite his cluttered but organized desk. It looked marginally more comfortable than the bench, and considering how sore she already was she opted to stand. 

“What did you learn from Jones?” He repeated himself firmly. 

“Why should I help you put an innocent man behind bars?”

“Give me a lead that’ll prove his innocence then.” Oh, he just thought he was sooo clever. She narrowed her eyes at him, he just replied with a smug look. 

“Wellington was blackmailing Jones and his lover.” She began.

“Yes, I know, that’s the motive for murder.”

“Wellington wanted 500 pounds this time, Jones sold his car to pay him off.”

“This is still sounding like motive for Jones.” Fox said, dismissively. She couldn’t decide if he was being obtuse deliberately to goad her, but it was having that outcome. Biting back the rude thing she wanted to say, Edith took a breath. 

“If I was going to kill my blackmailer I wouldn’t sell my car the same week I stabbed him. Furthermore, Jones admits to paying Wellington five hundred pounds, Wellington had twice that amount on him when he died. If he was blackmailing Jones and his lover, he probably was blackmailing other people as well. Finally, according to Jones, Wellington and his dance partner got into an argument at the club and he struck her. There are plenty of possible suspects for you Detective, if you choose to follow up on them.” She knew her jaw was set in the stubborn Crawley line, but as often as Detective David Fox was kind he was also absolutely infuriating. 

“Let me guess, if I don’t, you will?” He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Absolutely.”

“Lady Edith, if I recall, I’ve already explained to you - more than once - about not meddling in police affairs.”

“It won’t be meddling, it’ll be investigative journalism!” Fox actually chuckled at that, and then sighed heavily. 

“I should have known you’d find new ways to give me a headache.” He huffed, “Investigative journalist.” Then he stood and gestured toward the door. “Thank you for your assistance, My Lady, you’re free to go now.”

“You’re done charging me?” Fox rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m not charging you.”

“WHAT?!” She’d been very politely frogmarched into the back of a police van, photographed and fingerprinted, and left to sit in cuffs on a hard bench for hours and he  _ wasn’t _ going to charge her? 

“I’d hoped that actually experiencing consequences for your actions might deter you from further amature sleuthing. I misjudged the strength of your convictions, if it’s not actually going to deter you, what’s the point of going to the time and effort?” She could feel her mouth hanging open like some gawping, common fish but she just couldn’t believe it. She’d lost her entire afternoon sitting on a police bench fretting about what a criminal record would do to her reputation and if she could handle being completely cut off from her family, and he was just doing this to prove a point! There was a very small, very American part of her that wanted to threaten to sue him. But she resisted. Just. 

“You...You...You just arrested me for  _ fun?! _ ”

“I assure you, it wasn’t  _ fun _ . But it was good practice for some of the younger boys. They don’t have much practice processing women, and I’m not sure Constable Hill had ever met a Lady before. How’d they do, by the way? Did they get your title right?”

Tom and Matthew had taken her out to one of the farthest fields from the house after Christmas and spent three days teaching her how to handle a switchblade, fire a pistol, and most importantly, defend herself in a fight. Tom had been quite pleased with her right hook, even more so after she’d accidentally managed to hit him square in the nose. She’d not broken it, but it had been a solid wallop. The foolish, dear man, had actually been proud of her as tears welled in his eyes and blood dripped down his face. The bruising to her knuckles had been less than pretty, but no one had noticed. Wearing gloves to dinner had its advantages at times. She could easily punch Fox in the face and make it smart. And it’d be satisfying as well. But no… he probably really would charge her with something if she did that. 

Rather than physically punch him she summoned up her most  _ withering  _ Violet Crawley glare to level at him before turning and walking from the room without a word.

**#**

When she was little Edith had been almost convinced that Mrs. Hughes was secretly psychic. She had had such a way of knowing exactly what was needed in every situation. Carson was also quite omnipotent but he was also omnipresent. Mrs. Hughes on the other hand would be downstairs the entire day up until the moment Edith was feeling the lowest and then she’d appear a cookie or some paints or a book in her hand - the perfect solution to whatever it was that troubled her (usually a cheering up after Mary had torn her down). Fhay Lawrence wasn’t quite as psychic as Mrs. Hughes but there were days she was an absolute God’s sent. 

“Oh, you’re home.” Her lilting Welsh accent markedly different from a Scottish burr. Mrs. Lawrence was stopped in the foyer, bottle of wine in her hand. “Glass of wine, M’Lady? I was just about to open this for the sauce.”

“Yes please.” After the day she had. “A  _ large _ glass.” Mrs. Lawrence gave her a brief look then an understanding nod. 

“Absolutely.”

**#**

Edith had very nearly forgotten the letter in her handbag after the turn her day had taken and the excellent steak in red wine sauce Mrs. Lawrence had presented for dinner. It had, however, called to her as she settled by the fire with the remainder of the wine bottle.

The envelope was now a bit worse for wear, she had managed to land on her purse when she’d pulled herself through the second floor window. For a moment she stared into the fire, which crackled merrily, as if offering to deal with the thing for her. It would be easy to toss the envelope into the fire, letter and all, and she could picture perfectly how the edges of the letter would catch light first, twist and blacken until the entire thing was consumed along with his words. She should cut him from her life, and put the whole sorry experience far behind her. Her parents certainly would prefer that. They’d already moved on as if it had happened decades ago. They were quite able to cut even memory and reference of  _ him  _ out of their life. At first she had thought the way they avoided saying  _ his  _ name as something of a kindness to her. But she should really never underestimate her father’s pride. 

_ Why Anthony? _ It was eight months late but this was finally,  _ finally _ an answer. If she chucked it she knew she’d regret it instantly. So instead Edith settled herself back in her chair and topped up her wine glass dangerously high and carefully opened the envelope. 

_ Dear Lady Edith, _ It began with a formality that had never existed between them before. They had almost immediately become  _ Anthony _ and  _ Edith _ then  _ Darling  _ and  _ Dear.  _

_ Dear Lady Edith, _

_I must beg forgiveness for a great many things, and I shall begin with this letter itself. I am sure that you have no desire to hear from me ever again, which is my own doing. You do not deserve explanation so much as you deserve_ _better_ _from the first. I should have done better by you, and for that I am heartily sorry. You asked for an explanation, please forgive my presumption to write to you, but an explanation is the_ _least_ _I could do after what I have done._

_ I must also apologize for the other night. I caused you distress, again. I have never in my life wanted to hurt you, and yet I seem to do so at every turn. I also presumed to interfere in your life in a way that was rather high handed, and you were right to call me out. You have your own life to live and it is not my place to tell you how to live it, it is certainly not my place to assume that you do not know what you’re doing. I apologize for doing both last night.  _

_ I should beg forgiveness for my actions on our wedding day but I do not deserve it. It was cruel. If I was half the man I should be I should have never left you at the altar because I should have never allowed things to progress as they did. I offer no excuses and deserve no mercy. You, however, asked for an explanation. Why? I offer here that answer, again not as an excuse, not to try and curry sympathy or favor. I only want to answer your question - why? _

_ As you know, my war experience was rather different than your Cousin Matthew’s. It was different from most other men’s service. I speak fluent and unaccented German, and having studied abroad at Tübingen for a period I also have a thorough knowledge of Southern Germany - the geography, the people and their manners. This, combined with my affable manner and a general consensus amongst my peers that I am ‘dull’ (yes, I am well aware of this opinion, it would be more hurtful if it was not also quite useful), it was deemed by my superiors that I would be of best use behind enemy lines. For the better part of three years I was able to blend into the scenery and execute my mission. _ __

_ It was hard. I can’t think of any other way to describe it other than that, as simple as the word is. It was without a doubt the hardest thing I have ever done. Physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting. I survived but did not come back unchanged.  _

_ I have not been myself since I came home from Germany. My arm is perhaps the most physical of the differences but not the one that has scared me the most. I would not be a whole man even if both my arms worked. I have killed men, I have nearly been killed myself and a part of me is dead, buried and mouldering in more graves than I would like to remember. In graves I cannot forget. I want to be a good man, the best man for you, but there is a darkness in me that I cannot shake.  _

_ You are sunshine. Seeing you at your grandmothers was like feeling light for the first time and it warmed me. I had not felt warm since 1914, not really. You have always been wind and water and sky to me. At first I was drawn to your light, hoping quite selfishly that it could chase away the darkness. The more I came to rely on your light, however, the more I realized that darkness destroys light and that one day it would consume me and then consume you. This was where the doubt first festered. This dark, dank place in my soul, and it spread like a mold, like rot until I was riddled with it.  _

_ Your family’s reluctance to accept me was quite right. I had become something wholly unacceptable under this facade of respectability. By the time of our wedding I had succumbed to the rot, and was convinced that I was beyond the pale and beyond redemption. Then I learned more about your family’s objections, things I had forgotten but were so clear to others. My age. My arm. Hearing your grandmother’s quips about them at the altar opened the floodgates. _

_ I am old enough to be your father. I cannot drive any more. I cannot ride a horse or hunt. I cannot play the piano any more, cards require  _ equipment _. I cannot even  _ _ read _ _ without  _ equipment _. Eating, writing, and dressing are activities I had to relearn how to do and still require effort. Dressing in particular. Before Stewart was a luxury, having a valet was nice and certainly useful. Now he is essential. I have nightmares, frequently loudly, sometimes quite violently. Two days before the wedding I managed to put Stewart in a headlock before I woke and came to my senses.  _

_ All of these facts came crashing down and I could not bury you in the rubble of my life. I was going to destroy you. I wanted to destroy myself. In fact, after I left the church that day I went home with every intention of doing so. There was no reason for me to continue on, burden that I was. I was physically useless and quite sick in my head as well. This was why I left the church, left you. I loved you but I knew I would ruin you and I could not allow that to happen.  _

_ Stewart found me before I could follow through on the harm I wished to do myself (if only he found me before I could do harm to you!). He stopped me and the next day I was on a train to Scotland, there is a clinic there, outside of Edinburgh, which specializes in treating the mind. Particularly minds like mine which have been touched by violence and war. I am still not a whole man, not in the way I used to be. There is still a darkness in me, but it is not as all consuming as it once was. The rot has been cleared away. I am becoming myself once again. Or perhaps, put another way, I am becoming the man I shall be. He is different from the old one but not alien. He is a man I can finally respect and have compassion for. I am learning how to love myself again, something I have not done in some time. _

_ I offer no excuses and I deserve no forgiveness. But I am sorry and I shall be sorry for the rest of my life. I hurt you, quite cruelly, and I am sorry. I used you for my own selfish reasons, and I am sorry. I committed the grave sin of presuming to know what is best for you, for disregarding your feelings, opinions, and thoughts. I treated you apporedly in a number of ways, but I am most ashamed of how, in the end, I disregarded you as a person. I did not treat you like an equal during our engagement, not truely, And I am sorry.  _

_ Finally, I am sorry that I cannot remove myself further from your sight. Your Detective Fox has instructed me that for the duration of the investigation I am not to leave London and that I may be called upon again. For your comfort I would remove myself, but during a murder investigation I fear that is not possible. So instead I can only hope that should we meet again it will not pain you. It has always been my wish to spare you from any pain. I have never succeeded, I know.  _

_ I love you, Edith. That is one of the few things that has never changed. Never doubt that. I left that day because I did not deserve to be loved, I did not think it even possible, and it would poison our marriage. In the end, my actions did all of that on their own. But never doubt that I love you and that you are worthy of love. One day I know you will find someone deserving of you and your love who will love you most ardently. I wish you all the happiness in the world.  _

_ Your obedient servant,  _

_ Anthony Strallan _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: 1,000£ in 1920 money is equivalent to 29,057.70£ in 2017 money. For Americans, that’d be more like 35,930$. 
> 
> I’ve been to London exactly once in my life, over ten years ago now. I know nothing about the neighborhoods or the politics associated with them. The area of Wellington’s flat was chosen based on me googling around for expensive real estate in London. If I’ve completely missed the mark please read in whatever neighborhood is more suitable. I am open for suggestions on where Edith should be living. I can envision her decor pretty clearly, but not her address.
> 
> I am not the first person who has taken inspiration from Dorothy Sayers/ Lord Peter Wimsey’s war work when describing what Anthony was doing during his own service. I shall also argue that Anthony has purposefully cultivated a dull reputation to allow him to better observe those around him. If he’s utterly unnoticeable, who knows what someone will forget and say in front of him, plus who would suspect dull old Anthony Strallan of being a spy! I feel further justified in this headcanon because of George Smiley. John le Carré has argued that the bespeckled, polite, bit shabby, self-effacing intellectual (Smiley) is more representative of true spies than James Bond ever will be. Yes, I know Robert Bathurst had an audition for Bond, (I do love a good irony) but put that aside. Regarding Anthony’s flawless, unaccented German (something my partner, a German, argues is incredibly hard, night impossible to do) I argue that A. this is fiction, shut up, but also B. Anthony’s secret talent is as a mimic, he can perfectly replicate any accent if he hears enough of it. His cockney accent is also spot on, and if you get him drunk enough he can sound more like Robert Crawley than Lord Grantham himself. Something which will amuse and delight his brother-in-laws to no end once he and Edith marry. Finally, to add another sentence to this overly long note, Tübingen is one of the most wonderful/beautiful places I’ve ever been in the world. It’s a bit like a fairytale, especially along the river and in the old town. If you get a chance I strongly encourage you all to visit, in the summer if possible.


	5. 'Cause I've Gone Through That Brimstone and Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oblique reference to a botched abortion. There are some flashbacks in this chapter, those are demarcated with a bolded ellipse (...). Time skips in the present, or shifts in perspective are, as always, marked by a bold pound sign (#).

_ Café Clematis _ was only a little way away from  _ The Sketch _ ’s busy office on Fleet Street, but it felt like another world. The winter sun fell in shades of blues and greens across the ceramic tiled flowers and vines which decorated the walls. Outside it was frigid, but inside dragonflies flitted in their tiled scenes. Marble top tables were scattered across the warm wooden floor, most the perfect size for two patrons and a chessboard, although some were large enough to accommodate a party of four, maybe even five as long as they were friends. In the corners overstuffed chairs with sloped little wings hugging the body like arms sat beside end tables, perfect for reading the newspaper in peace. Somewhere along the line the café had realized that people would linger and rather than fight it,  _ Café Clematis  _ has embraced it wholeheartedly. Chess and cribbage boards were available, as were newspapers - not only from London, but also Paris and Vienna, Berlin and New York. Moreover, drink portions anticipated lingering, a cup of coffee at  _ Clematis  _ was one and a half cups elsewhere. Each tray came to the table with a cup the size of a soup bowl and when applicable the tea or coffee pot as well as a glass of still water. The café also had a small selection of pastries and a few savory options. 

Edith had been introduced to the café her first week at _The Sketch_ , Opal and a few other of the girls from the office had taken her out for lunch. She’d met Alice Waters that day. They’d sat at the only table which could accommodate more than five good friends, which stretched the length of the front windows. Edith had been ordered to sit in the middle as she was “the new girl” and introductions had been made. Alice Waters had been to her left, like a ray of golden light on a pale river – all yellow hair and ice blue eyes. She’d seem so painfully chic and modern: calling everyone _darling,_ wearing a smart cerulean prêt-à-porter dress, and smoking delicate cigarettes with effortless grace. _Poor Alice._ Edith decided on a small table a bit further away from the windows and her memories. Alice had survived her meeting with Butcher George, but at great cost. Lori had confided in her that while the scar on her stomach would fade, the scars inside would likely mean that she would never have another child. 

Edith sat and took a slow, deep breath. George was behind bars now, as were Moreau and Lizzie Gregson –  _ she’d  _ seen to that. She and Opal and Lori had found the evidence necessary to lock them all away for what they did, not just to Mr. Gregson, but also to all those girls whose only crime was to be taken in by Michael’s dubious charms. She’d almost been one of those girls.  _ Edith Violet, stop it. _ She scolded herself. She might have been one of those girls, her naïveté and loneliness had almost gotten the better of her, but she hadn’t been. And there was no point in focusing on the past, on the ‘what ifs’ and ‘might have beens’ when there were pressing matters in the present. 

Shaking the last of the unwanted thoughts from her head she pulled from her satchel a pen and trusty steno pad. Opal had introduced  _ Clematis  _ to her, but Edith had made it her place all on her own. She had discovered early on that she couldn’t write particularly well in dead silence. If it were too quiet, it was too easy for her mind to wander.  _ He _ had always crept into the silences. However, writing at Rosamund’s or at the office didn’t always work. Ambient noise was conducive to writing, but the constant interruptions of her Aunt or the staff of  _ The Sketch _ usually meant that she lost five minutes for every complete sentence that she wrote. The café offered the perfect solution. Busy enough to never be silent yet anonymous enough that no one ever stood over her table to ask her seventy different questions. Plus  _ Clamatis  _ did an excellent  _ cafe mélange,  _ and coffee was absolutely vital to her thinking process.

It had been almost a week since she had discovered Lionel Wellington behind  _ The Green Mill. _ In that time, she had been arrested herself and managed to get all of the copy gathered and arranged with the art so that the February edition of  _ The Sketch _ could be sent to the printers. She’d also made several discreet inquiries both as Marigold Drewes and as Lady Edith Crawley into Wellington’s life and associates. This was the first moment in nearly four days that she could sit down and actually begin to try and process everything she’d learned. Edith flipped to a clean page in her notebook. 

**...**

The first thing she had done the morning after her arrest was to locate Frederick Wilentz’s address. He’d been understandably hesitant to speak with her but after five solid minutes of persuading him through the crack in the door he’d let her into his apartment. Freddy, as he’d insisted, was a tall and lithe man with a mop of dark hair which fell in his eyes, even after he tried to push it back (or perhaps in spite of his efforts). He had eyes like sunlight through summer leaves and a very gentle smile. He looked about twelve. 

She was exaggerating,  _ slightly. _ But he was young and looked even younger. He’d gone chalk white when she told him that Sullivan Jones had been arrested and had sunk down onto the sofa like his legs had been cut out from under him. She couldn’t blame him in the slightest. He was silent for a time. For so long she had begun to wonder if she should find some brandy for the shock, but eventually he’d looked at her and actually  _ saw  _ her. He’d taken a deep, shaking breath, and told her everything. 

_ Freddy Wilentz, 22 _

__ Friend _ of S. Jones, being blackmailed by L. Wellington - paid 500£ last week for silence (SJ sold car to cover cost). Obviously believes SJ innocent. _

_ At the Green Mill between ~9-11, during the band’s first set. Paid Wellington between dances, left directly after. Went to sister’s party, says she will confirm he arrived around 11:15/30. Was on scavenger hunt team with four others (F. Lyon, B. Rowley, A. Storm, R. Brown, H. Madden) who will confirm. _

_ According to FW Wellington had argument with his dance partner (S. Mason), LW slapped her. Apparently, she’s more than his dance partner – (jealous?) lover. FW suggests her as prime suspects.  _

_ Can’t name anyone else that LW was blackmailing but certain there were others. Apparently LW worked at three different clubs as a dancer and spent time “skulking” about and listening at doors. Still no idea how he managed to get footage - Does LW have relationship with a hotel? Filming in rooms? If able to do such a thing LW must be a  _ _ professional _ _ blackmailer. Opens up more suspects.  _

Freddy hadn’t wanted to leave London, to leave Sullivan (“Sully”) alone to wait in jail. But in the end Edith had convinced him that he would be more useful to his  _ friend _ out of jail than in it. 

**...**

Friday ‘Marigold’ had gone back to  _ The Green Mill _ too early to be fashionable. It had been easy to pretend to be an excitable jazz aficionado when she truly had enjoyed the one song she had heard the band play the week before. The band leader and bassist, Tintagel Sloane had reminded her a bit of Michael Gregson. Charm itself, but always with an undercurrent that expected more. He’d been easy enough to talk to, as soon as he saw her legs. ‘Marigold’ pretended not to notice how her skirt rode up on her thigh as she perched herself on one of the bar stools, champagne cup (with a splash of gin) in her hand. The cocktail had been so good she almost felt bad ‘accidently’ spilling it on him when his hand had landed on her knee and started to sojourn north. Almost. 

_ Tintagel Sloane, old enough to know better.  _

_ Australian, moved to London two years ago along with Chastity and Daniel Rosenberg to start Chastity’s Sextet, house band of the Green Mill. (really, quite good band. Too bad TS seems to be an Australian Michael Gregson – too slick by half).  _

_ Played two sets the night LW died, first started at 9, ended around 10:30. Second set started about 12 (caught first song of second set, Mr. Rosenberg is a v. v. good trumpet player) _

_ TS knew LW and LW’s partner (S. Mason), they started dancing at  _ the Green Mill _ not long before TS & co. joined as the house band. TS did not know that LW was blackmailing people (played this like gossip, used particularly vapid expression. TS ate it up – disgusting). TS was not surprised, however, says LW was always “sniffing” around people at ‘the Mill’. Must have been particularly bad if TS thought the man ‘ungentlemanly’.  _

_ TS recalls nothing much from the night LW died, Mill v. v. crowded (can confirm) and stage only gives an excellent view of crowd and smoke, not individuals. No idea who LW spoke with. _

_ During break TS went to bar and chatted up young woman, bartender confirmed. _

_ Members of Chastity’s Sextet: _

_ Tintagel Sloane – Bassist, band leader _

_ Chastity Rosenberg – Vocalist Only woman in the band, only black person in band. Tall as an Amazon, frosty as the arctic as well. All I did was compliment Mr. Rosenberg on his trumpet solo and she accused me of flirting! Married to Trumpet player, Daniel Rosenberg. Met DR in Australia married him there as well – Interracial marriage illegal in Virginia (where she’s from) _

_ Daniel Rosenberg – Trumpet player, v. v. good. English - sent to antipodes during war. Stayed in Australia after, met Sloane and Chasity there. Quite a bit shorter than his wife, almost comical, but they seem to be v. happy, even if he seems to need a stool to kiss her.  _

_ Interesting – Both Rosenbergs claimed to not know LW very well, yet neither liked him at all. Quite vehement dislike. Only met them in passing therefore couldn’t ask if they were being blackmailed (that and it’s quite the question to just ask someone out of the blue). Something to think about.  _

_Isaac Wengrow – Pianist, English. Met Sloane, et al. in England. Married to a waitress at ‘The Mill’, Kristina ‘Kiki’ Wengrow. Isaac doesn’t see much from behind the piano (his words) but Kiki had_ a lot _to say. LW apparently quite the leech. Hands all over anyone in a skirt. “Cracked” his dance partner across the cheek, for not the first time, during an argument. His partner, Sally Mason, keeps saying she and LW are going to get married (according to Kiki). Apparently, they’ve been ‘engaged’ for three years. He’s moved the wedding twice; it was supposed to have been last week. Apparently, he had a ‘business meeting’. Kiki didn’t buy it. If SM did stab him after all of that I couldn’t blame her (I probably should not have written that). SM day job as florist assistant in addition to dancing with LW at three clubs._

_ Martin Cooper – Saxophonist, English. Looks nothing like a saxophonist, not sure what a saxophonist looks like, but not Martin Cooper. Very blonde, and a little round, baby faced. Hard to believe he is supposedly thirty. He and LW occasionally talked football, LW an Arsenal man and apparently that’s supposed to mean something. _ _ He recalls nothing useful about the night LW was murdered. _

_ Andrew O’Shaughnessy – Drums, Irish. Funny guy, lots of mad, manic energy and smiles. Hearing a little shot. Doesn’t remember much about the night LW died but did remember him asking all kinds of personal questions the first few times they met. Like he was trying to suss out not only his politics but his mother’s maiden name and what his first words were. Given LW likes to keep other people’s secrets for a price, was probably hoping AO’S had secret ties to terrorists or something. Since LW wasn’t blackmailing him one can only assume he has no skeletons in the closet.  _

_ Pascal Claes – Guitarist, Belgian. Nice man, married with two kids. Didn’t even talk about football with LW. Doesn’t remember much about the night LW died either, not a very useful witness. Did get to practice my French, however. _

**...**

Neither Lady Edith Crawley nor Marigold Drewes walked into the florist where Sally Mason worked. Or rather they both did. Edith needed Marigold’s brass and unashamed patronage of the clubs where Miss Mason worked, but Edith also needed to be back in the office soon. 

Edith’s single minded focus on Anthony had posed a slight problem now that she needed to find witnesses. Everyone and everything else about that night was an absolute blur except for him. Thankfully Kiki Wengrow was a bit of a gossip and more than a bit loquacious. Sally Mason was immediately recognizable thanks to Mrs. Wengrow’s spot on description. Short, curvier than was currently fashionable, with bright blonde corkscrew curls, older - close to forty, trying to look closer to twenty. Her eyes were dark and a set a bit too close together.

The woman in the flesh stood behind the counter, wrestling with a dozen roses and a rather ornate looking arrangement.

“Can I help you?” She asked with a put upon sigh which Edith assumed was leftover frustration from the vase.

“I hope so, I need...my boss needs a bouquet that says  _ thank you. _ ” She was getting rather good at lying, which was a bit distressing. Although she supposed it was only a partial lie. Opal had been an absolute goddess in helping get the February edition to the printers, especially since Edith was now so distracted with this murder and seeing  _ him  _ again. A bouquet was the least she could do. Miss Mason narrowed her eyes at her for a moment before moving around the counter.

“Your boss give you any more details than that?”

“Excuse me?”

“What kind of  _ thank you _ are they sending?” Mason quirked a brow and Edith felt herself blush. 

“Just a regular thank you. But they’re willing to spend a full pound on it.” Hopefully that would buy her enough time to ask her questions.

“Well then.” Mason seemed a little less standoffish as she walked over to a bucket full of irises. Edith trailed after her, trying to decide how long she should wait before pretending to recognize Miss Mason from  _ The Green Mill.  _

“Have we met before, I recognize you from somewhere.” Miss Mason beat her to the punch. 

“Maybe?” Edith pretended to think. “Oh, ‘the Mill’! I saw you dancing there last week.” Mason looked her up and down slowly over the full blooms of pink roses.

“I remember you now. Bright red dress, geezer on your arm. You looked like you were fried.”

_ Sally Mason - about 40, LW’s dance partner, sometimes fiancée, florist assistant and deeply unpleasant woman.  _

“Your dance partner was the man who was murdered, wasn’t he? Mr. Wellington?” Miss Mason truly looked stricken for a moment. 

“We were gonna get married.”

“You were?” The look she shot her was deadly but Edith chose to ignore the danger. “Only I heard the wedding had been called off.”

“Oh you’ve been talking to that Kiki Wengrow!” She wasn’t sad anymore. “It was  _ postponed, not _ canceled, there’s a difference! Lionel had a business meeting.” 

“A business meeting.” It wasn’t like wedding dates weren’t chosen in advance. How on earth could one suddenly have a scheduling conflict - and pick the  _ meeting  _ over the wedding? Furthermore what kind of  _ business _ could Lionel Wellington possibly have, as far as she could tell his only jobs were as a dancer and blackmailer.

“A  _ business meeting _ .”

“I also heard you and Lionel had quite the argument the night he died.”

“What are you suggesting?” Miss Mason’s knuckles were white around the partially formed bouquet. 

“Was it about the wedding or had you caught him with hands on another girl  _ again _ . The man was a regular octopus I’ve heard. That had to have been-”

“ _ How DARE you?! _ ”

“Humiliating.” Edith finished. Miss Mason was incandescent with rage, her already pinched features pinched further, hands shaking. For a moment she wasn’t certain if she would be beaten to death with a clutch of Irises, roses, and a few sunny yellow mums. It would be justifiable homicide, Edith would admit, she’d been absolutely vile to the poor woman. That nasty, angry little girl who had written to the Turkish embassy to get back at her older sister, had reared her ugly, petty head again. No matter how old she got, it seemed, she would never fully outgrow that small person she had been. “I wouldn’t blame you if you’d killed him, you know. I would have, if I were in your shoes - fiancé canceling our wedding, flirting with other women, and backhanding me in public.”

“My shoes?!” Mason squawked. “What would  _ you  _ know about  _ my  _ shoes? You with your youth and good looks and rich  _ Daddy _ . I don’t want to be a  _ working girl _ the rest of my life!”

Edith felt her jaw drop open and she shut it with a snap, exhaling heavily through her nostrils. 

“The only  _ work _ I do is in an office.”

“Oh and that was your _husband_ then.” _He could have been_ , she wanted to retort. _He should have been -_ would _have been, if it weren’t for his scars and her family._ Collecting herself Edith focused on the task at hand.

“You never answered my question - did you kill Lionel Wellington?”

**…**

_ Sally Mason - about 40, LW’s dance partner, sometimes fiancée, florist assistant and deeply unpleasant woman. Shame, she produces some truly lovely bouquets.  _

_ Engaged to LW, denies that he called off the wedding, insists that it was postponed and  _ _ would _ _ be happening. Did not deny that he hit her on occasion and that he had other relationships. She was apparently aware of these infidelities and tolerated them. Says she loves him and wanted him to be happy and that she didn’t care as long as at the end of the day he came back to her. Says LW was a charmer, handsome, and a good dancer so she was unsurprised he had other girlfriends. One dalliance in particular favored cloying rose perfume, SM says she hated the scent more than the confirmation he was with her. Not sure I believe her. There is  _ no way _ I would accept such an arrangement, but then SM seems fairly desperate to be married, maybe the groom doesn’t matter as much. Also, do not understand why she, or anyone, would find LW handsome. He didn’t seem particularly attractive when I saw him and the more I hear about him he seems absolutely vile. I could at least understand why someone might find Gregson attractive. But Lionel Wellington?  _ No _.  _

_ I don’t believe her re: accepting LW’s infidelity however she seems to have an alibi for the time LW was killed. After he hit her she went to the back room of the club to wash her face, apparently he’d split her lip. She says she was with either Anne Hyde and Pauline Maier (waitresses) the whole time she was getting cleaned up and having a drink to steady her nerves.  _

_ SM remembered me from ‘the Mill’. Saw Anthony too. Accused me of being a “working girl”, assumed A was my john. Said I couldn’t possibly understand her life. I thought about countering that I was in fact well aware of how it felt when a groom didn’t want to be at the wedding, but got distracted by the accusation of being a prostitute! Michael Gregson seemed to think I would be an easy conquest and now she thinks I perform sexual acts for money. And honestly, I’m not sure which I’m more insulted by - is being thought to be a whore better or worse than people thinking that I’m easy?  _

_ What I’m more insulted by is someone thinking A solicited a prostitute! How dare they look at him and think such an awful thing. All SM saw was an “old man” with a “bum arm” and didn’t think he was worth anything more than that! Or that he was some lecherous baronet from a victorian tale. She just assumed he was that sort of man, rather than the interesting, kind, generous person he really is. Perhaps A has a small point about our ages if everyone takes one look at us and assumes ‘oh he must be paying her’. But then how could they, Anyone with any sense should recognize A for the man he is - _

Edith’s pen stopped mid sentence. These notes had turned into not just a diary but an absolute tirade. A tirade to defend  _ him. _ She’d told Miss Mason: _ I wouldn’t blame you if you’d killed him, you know. I would have, if I were in your shoes, _ but that was a lie. Even with  _ him  _ leaving her at the altar she could  _ never  _ kill him. Hurting him had even caused her pain, and she never wanted to do it again. 

She loved him. 

She still loved him. 

Sharp movement at the edge of her vision caught her attention and she turned her head in time to see  _ him  _ draw up short, his eyes wide as he realized that  _ she  _ was sitting at the table. For a moment blue met brown and nothing else existed but them.

He was first to crash back to the real world. 

“I should go.” He said softly, turning to do just that. 

“No!” She stood up like a shot, drawing the eye of the next table with her quick movement and forceful voice. He stopped and turned back to her slowly. 

He always could wear a suit. As tall as he was, with those broad shoulders...when he wore a suit everyone else just looked like a boy. This suit was no exception: Single breasted, it fit like a dream, showing the broadness of his shoulders to great advantage. The brown glen check flannel had a subtle blue overplaid which brought out his eyes like aquamarines drinking in the light. His eyes had always had a special hold over her. They were particularly blue today, she’d not seen them so bright since those halcyon days before the war. How had she not noticed the shadows in them during their engagement? She really must have been blind to miss all the signs. Blind and so desperate to be married that the groom didn’t matter. Or rather the groom’s wellbeing didn’t matter. 

But he was looking well, she’d suspected it at  _ The Green Mill _ , although between the dimness and haze of the club, as well as her anger, she had not been sure afterward. Seeing him in the light of day confirmed it. His face was fuller and his posture upright and proud, unlike the bowed man, bent in on himself like he was trying to hide, she’d forced down the aisle. The doctors had helped him. He had said as much in his letter, but a sense of relief washed over her nonetheless to see just how improved he was. Even if he was no longer hers at least he was well and taken care of. 

She was staring. She realized as he fidgeted slightly, she’d been staring at him without uttering a word. Awkwardly she averted her gaze and sat back down. 

“Please, sit.” She said softly, gesturing to the chair opposite her. It was his turn to stare. Carefully she closed her steno pad and tried to school her features into something pleasant rather than betray her racing thoughts. Carefully, as if he expected the chair to bite him, he sat. She sipped her coffee, it had gone cold ages ago, but there was only a little left. She could sit and finish her coffee and not fall to pieces as the love of her life sat across the table from her, so close yet so utterly distant. 

“I’m almost finished,” she continued, “and then I have to head back to the office.” He studied her for a moment, but a waitress appeared at his elbow before he could actually say anything to her. He gave her a small nod before turning to the server and ordering a  _ cafe noisette _ . 

“Edith, I-” “Anthony-” He stopped speaking immediately, his lips pursed tightly together. She remembered that look, he always felt guilty if he interrupted her. He wouldn’t open his mouth again unless prevailed upon, or she spoke her piece first.

“I have read your letter.” Simple, to the point, unlike all the feelings it had stirred within her. Oh, she wasn’t angry with him any more. Angry  _ for  _ him, perhaps. Angry that so much had been asked of him, that the war had hurt him so badly. Angry with herself for not doing better by him. She’d spent the war treating traumatized soldiers and  _ completely _ ignored or disregarded all the signs in  _ him. _ She’d used him for her own selfish ends as much as he claimed to have used her. She’d hardly treated him as a complete person either, but spent most of his time referring to him as ‘her project’ - even to his face! She was angry at her family as well for not treating him better, the subtle mocking, the outright insulting comments about his age, his arm, his  _ affability _ . Really, only her family could look down their nose at a man being pleasant and polite. She met his eye and gave him a small nod,  _ your turn.  _

“The moment I sent it I wondered if I had made the right choice. If I had already imposed on you enough or if I should do the brave thing and try to explain in person. I intended to go to your office and explain in person. I got as far as the door and then… well, here I am.” The waitress brought him his espresso and a glass of water, they both gave her polite smiles, in silent agreement to hold their conversation until they were alone in the crowded dining room. 

“Discretion might have been the better part of valor, I think my assistant would throw you out of a window if you were to show up at the office.” Opal absolutely would. No matter that Anthony was so tall and solid and Opal was shorter than Edith.

“Really?” There was amusement in his tone, but also a healthy fear.

“She and I have become rather good friends, and events transpired…” My loneliness and naïveté almost got the better of me, but thankfully Michael was already dead. This his widow and her friend stripped me and Opal naked and tried to kill us in a sauna, of course this was after Opal had nearly been assaulted by an abortionist who was being blackmailed into killing his clients. After sharing all that it made sense to tell her and her partner about the worst day of my life. “One thing led to another, and I told her about  _ That Day _ .” 

“She hates me.” He sipped his coffee but she could see in his eyes how he believed he deserved it. 

“I can’t, so she does it for me.” She couldn’t hate him. She wanted to, she thought she should, she  _ tried to _ but in the end she simply could not hate him. She loved him too much. Oh, she had been angry. She didn’t have to stop loving him to do that, but that anger never once turned to hate. 

“I’m sorry?” He sat the small espresso cup down on its saucer with a clink. She took a deep breath. 

“I have never hated you - I  _ could  _ never hate you. Even when I thought I’d flood Downton with my tears, I didn’t hate you. Even when I was so angry I couldn’t see straight, I didn’t hate you. Opal hates you for me, because I can’t do it myself.” She finished the last of her coffee. “Anthony, your letter...did you mean it?” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “The last paragraph, did you mean it?” He said he loved her, that he still loved her and that he wanted her to be happy. 

He closed his eyes and softly replied,

“Yes.”

He loved her. He still loved her. And she loved him. 

“I think we should talk.” From her bag she retrieved her card and carefully wrote her home and office number on the back. “Really talk, it’s the only way we can move forward. I have to get back to the office…” She placed her payment on her coffee tray and stood. He stood as well, looking down at her with confusion, fear, and perhaps a little hope. She handed him her card. “I’d like for us to meet, please think about it.” Before he had a chance to speak she headed for the door, forcing herself to not look back over her shoulder. 

**#**

“There’s a Mr. Tony Dietrich on the line for you.” Opal’s auburn head popped into her office the following afternoon as Edith sat at her desk, abstracts for prospective April articles spread out before her. 

“Tony Dietrich?” Edith only knew one person who went by “Tony”, but the new Viscount Gillingham’s surname was Foyle, and she could not think of a reason he’d call  _ her  _ out of the blue. 

“Yes, said that you gave him your card and told him to call to set up a meeting?” She’d not met with a Dietrich at  _ the Green Mill _ , nor did Freddy Welintz or Sullivan Jones mention someone by that name, there’d been no one else at the florist when she’d met Sally Mason. At a loss Edith picked up the receiver. 

“Hello, Lady Edith Crawley speaking.” 

“Hallo, Lady Ēdit,” Tony Dietrich had a lovely voice, with a strong German accent but he was being mindful to enunciate every word, making them as clear as possible.

“Hello, Mr. Dietrich, how can I help you?” The plot thickened, not only was the name unfamiliar to her, she also didn’t know any Germans. 

“Is this a good time? I hoped to speak _ mit _ you  alone .” Very mysterious. Edith peaked through the windows of her office. She didn’t have a view on the outside world, but she did have a clear line of sight to Opal’s desk, her phone was on the receiver and her friend was now speaking with Mr. Bathurst. She couldn’t hear any of the bustle outside her office, but Opal was clearly laughing at whatever the critic had said.

“Now is a good time.”

“Excellent. Sorry about the cloak and dagger routine, but I was afraid if I told your assistant my name she wouldn’t put me through to you.” Mr. Dietrich, the German, was suddenly, seamlessly replaced by Anthony Strallan’s warm voice. 

“Not an unfounded concern, she very might have hung up on you, but the accent?” Anthony had always been good with impressions and accents. It had been a fun game they would sometimes play, she would give him a regional dialect or person and he would mimic them. He could shift from the broadest cockney, full of rhymes to the highest of highland Scotish brogues, on the turn of a phrase. And then there was one time when he had snuck up on her after a dinner with her family at Locksley and scared her to death by imitating her father. She had very nearly jumped out of her skin and he had just laughed and  _ laughed  _ until fat tears rolled down his cheeks. She’d eventually found it funny herself and laughed until her cheeks ached. At the time she had thought that his ability to laugh and tease meant he was fine - the depressed and scared couldn’t laugh like that could they? Foolish girl that she’d been, she’d thought that a good joke and trauma were mutually exclusive. 

“Well, in for a penny, in for a pound I suppose.” She could only laugh at that. Why not pick out a new accent along with a new name? It made complete sense. 

“Tony I understand, buy why Dietrich?” 

“It was my mother’s maiden name.” His mother... Edith could recall Evangeline Strallan’s face vividly: her blue, blue eyes shining out from her portrait like gems, full of an internal fire and sparkling wit. In most respects Anthony resembled his father - Philip Strallan had been a tall, broad shouldered man. Anthony had his father’s nose and his father’s chin, but he had his mother’s eyes. She had passed them to him, along with her gentle compassion, love of reading, and piano skills. 

“Ah.” He always spoke of his father with the highest respect, but when he spoke of his mother it was always with palpable love. 

“I thought about choosing the street I grew up on, but Locksley sounds too much like a fake name.”

“Quite so! Entirely too Robin Hood to be believable.” Anthony’s laugh came from deep in his chest, bright and authentic. She chuckled as well, they had always been able to make one another laugh. She’d missed that. During this estrangement she’d come to miss so many things about him, his laugh first among them. 

“Indeed.” His laughter fading into a more serious silence. “You said that you wanted to talk,” He began. Edith could feel the smile melt away from her face. “I’d like that - I mean, I agree... talking might be a good idea.” The easy conversation stalled. There had been a time when they could talk to one another about anything and nothing for hours on end. 

“When would be a good time for you? I’m afraid the rest of this week is rather busy for me.” She needed to meet with Detective Fox again and see if he had made good on following up the information she’d given him. If not she’d have some more inquiries to make, possibly more serious than just pretending to be a giggly drunk or an office junior who liked to gossip. And then of course there was  _ The Sketch _ . Being the editor  and a contributor was a full time job and then some, and with her mind on  _ his  _ return and her attention on the death of Lionel Wellington, she had been less than focused on work. Opal had very much stepped into the breach, taking over some of Edith’s duties in addition to her own as office manager. She owed it to her friend to stay in the office and actually do her job.

“I don’t deserve your time at all, I am not about to start dictating your schedule.” The first thing she wanted to discuss was stopping this talk of “deserving” and aggressive self-deprecation. There was a difference between the penitent sinner and this level of self-flagellation. It could not be good for his mental health. “And it’s not like I’m the editor of an extremely successful literary and lifestyle magazine.” He must have sensed her dismay and tried to allay it with flattery. 

“I wouldn’t call it  _ extremely _ successful…” As always he was too generous to everyone but himself.

“It will be, but only if you set your own course - and your own schedule. So what day would be best for you?” She couldn’t argue with that. Edith turned to her desk calendar, the work week was out - Lady Edith had meeting with Roger and the board tomorrow, Marigold was supposed to try out El Paradis on Friday with a friend of Lori’s (He had been carefully vetted, and according to Nurse Stanton, had no desire to acquire a  _ flatmate _ of either gender). As for the weekend ( _ What is a weekend? _ Oh Granny!) she had promised Aunt Rosamund dinner on Sunday.  _ Have Lori and Opal around Saturday _ , her mind prompted as she looked at her calendar. She owed Lori for keeping Opal at the office all hours helping get February’s proofs ready for the printer. A good dinner and a nice bottle of something would be a fair apology for her distraction, plus they could discuss Wellington’s death. Edith now had a notebook full of theories and possible suspects but no idea how to narrow down the list. 

“The earliest I’m available is Monday evening, would that be convenient?” She had Monday Lunch free as well, but she knew that there was no way she could see him again and be expected to go back to work, not if they were actually going to discuss things. On the other end of the line she could hear the soft rustling of papers and she could easily imagine Anthony hurriedly flipping through his appointment book to confirm. He’d always kept the slim notebook in his breast pocket, quickly at hand any time he needed to set a date or make a note, she’d even caught him doodling in it one occasion the first time they were courting.

“I’m free all of Monday.”

“I can come to Locksley House after work and we can discuss in private.” Focusing on work would be difficult, but also distracting, there would be no time to dwell and she would go over to him still in her “editor mode” and work clothes. She was more confident when she was acting as an editor she’d discovered, she was in charge she couldn’t be anything less than confident. Plus, her work clothes, as nice as they were, were not remotely what one would wear on a date, there would be no illusions that the conversation would be about anything other than business.

There was a pregnant pause on the other end. For a moment she worried that someone was eavesdropping and Anthony had rung off, but Opal was now focused on editing, her red pen viciously crossing out something on the page.

“Lady Edith,” His voice was odd, like he was straining to put distance between them and only slightly succeeding. Nonetheless his tone was serious. “It would not be at all proper for me to ask you to ‘come round’ on your own, after work or no. As much as I agree that this is a conversation best held in private I cannot cause any more damage to your reputation. Allow me to book us a table.” How unlike Michael he truly was! Gregson had jumped at the first opportunity to get her home alone, inventing an entire party for them to attend and promising her a “working dinner”...

“Would the Criterion be acceptable?” She had been so lost in her own thoughts that she nearly missed his question. 

“Yes, yes of course.” Gregson had taken her there for lunch the day she signed the contact to become a full time contributor. The food was good enough for her to ignore the association, however (but not so good that if things went south she’d ever be able to set foot in the restaurant again without thinking of  _ him _ ). 

“I will endeavour to book us a table for seven then? Mr. Dietrich will call you to confirm.” She had to smile as Anthony slipped into his immaculate German accent. The enormity of what dinner meant had settled onto her shoulders, however, making the smile hollow.

“I look forward to your call, Herr Dietrich. Until then.” Placing the receiver back in the cradle Edith let out a shaking breath. 

Dinner.

With  _ Him.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By now you’ll probably have noticed some character names are awkwardly familiar. Gerald St. George isn’t a direct Peter Wimsey reference, at least not in the sense that Lord Peter et. al. exist in this universe. Rather when I’m stumped for names I stare at my bookshelf until something jumps out at me. All of the constables are named after bastards in Game of Thrones, you’ll find some characters share their names with historians of the Early American Republic, and in one instance I named a character after one of the signatures on my diploma. So take these names as tells or jokes, but I don’t want anyone to seriously assume this is secretly a crossover with The Hour or something. And for God’s sake don’t assume that these characters are meant to reflect actual people!
> 
> If you’re historically inclined and a bit of a lush, like myself, there is an interesting article on the history of the French 75 on the illustrious liquor. com. [Behind the Drink: the French 75] The gist being that while the French 75 as we know first appeared in print in 1927, people had been combining champagne, sugar, citrus and gin for ages before then. A ‘champagne cup’ is a cocktail made with champagne, sugar, and citrus. Add some gin and well…
> 
> I will be the first to admit I know literally nothing about the Premier League, or honestly football in general, other than two things. One, if I want to get along with my in-laws, I should be a VFB Stuttgart fan (even though they’ve been relegated to the second Bundesliga) and two, Stan Kroenke owns Arsenal. Kroenke is an American who owns lots of other sports teams, is married to a Walmart heiress, and is from Missouri (in fact he lived in the town where I did my graduate work). I don’t know what the politics of being an Arsenal fan are in England, but I know a little bit about Kroenke’s sports politics. If anyone has any English football recommendations, I’m open to them. In our house we watch all soccer (and by we, I mean my partner) although he’s slightly partial to Liverpool, mainly out of German solidarity with Jürgen Klopp. 
> 
> Germans speak excellent English. However, there are some sounds that don’t exist in German which are in English, and thus Germans generally can’t make, for example the “th” consonant blend. So the name Katherine in English becomes Katrine/Katrina in German. Additionally vowels as the first letter is always pronounced long, hence the macron over the e. Thus Edith, in a German accent, is Eh-dit. These are the little things you learn when you marry a non-native English speaker. My poor partner, I ask him the most random things sometimes. (say this word...no like a German)
> 
> My very cursory research has indicated that the key telephone system which allowed for branch exchange didn’t come about until the 1930s, so I’m assuming that for calls in the office there’s a sort of party line. Yes, you can take a call in your office rather than having to go out in the hall, but anyone who picks up a phone on that line can eavesdrop. While I always associate party lines with Pillow Talk and the 50s/60s, in parts of the United States party lines were still in use into the 1990s (mostly in rural areas, although Illinois State University had a party line for its dorms until 1990). 
> 
> Everyone knows that to find your stripper name you take the name of your first pet plus the street you grew up on. Which I love because that means my husband’s stripper name would be Socrates Wanderweg, which is one of the best things I’ve ever heard. (also, neither he nor I should really be allowed to name things. He had a bunny named Socrates, and when she died he replaced her with a bunny named James Madison. I have a cat named Abelard after Peter Abelard - because they’ve both been neutered). Fun fact from the random German file: Dietrich in old German (like old old Germanic tribe German) Dietrich means something like ‘the wealth in the people’ or rich person/aristocrat. It has since gone on to become a common first name and also be one of the terms for lock-pick and no one really knows why. 
> 
> On the subject of picking a new surname and (grand)mother’s: It is my life’s ambition to publish a novel and have the pen name Cait Forney (my great-grandmother’s maiden name, pronounced For-nee) so that when recorded as Author’s Surname, First Name it would read Forney, Cait and be the most labored pun I’ve ever made. I try to have very sensible and attainable goals.


	6. And Now I'm All Ready to Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Passing reference(s) to domestic abuse, capture/torture.
> 
> My deepest thanks to Queenlovett, who once again was indispensable in letting my ramble on...and on...and on. As well as for casting eyes over sections.

“Lady Edith!” Constable Flowers snapped to attention, hurriedly trying to hide  _ Jungle Tales of Tarzan _ under the front desk as he greeted her with respect and confusion. “Can - Can I help you?” Flowers always reminded her a bit of a foal - all arms and legs, mostly coordinated but still a little gangly, just waiting to grow into his body. It made it a little difficult to take him seriously when he looked like a teenager masquerading as an adult. His wide eyed fear and vague stuttering when she was around didn’t help matters either. 

“Hello Constable Flowers, is the Detective Inspector in?” Beyond him she could see the short hall she had been led down after her arrest; to the left was where she had been “processed” - her finger prints and picture taken, on the right was an open space with several desks where the constables could sit and do paperwork. Beyond that boisterous bullpen was Detective Fox’s small private office, about the size of a closet but it had a window with a view of a little green yard behind the station. 

“Y-yes, but he’s in a meeting. Is there something I can do for you, Lady Edith?”

“No, thank you though, I’ll just wait for Detective Fox.” There was a long wooden bench against the wall opposite the desk. Edith sighed and took a seat, unlike the bench she’d been sat on after her arrest this one had a back, but neither had a cushion. Hopefully Fox wouldn’t be too long, her tailbone had only just recovered. For a long moment Constable Flowers stared at her, his eyes occasionally flicking back to, presumably, check if Fox was coming before returning to watch her warily. She couldn’t decide if this was because he truly was afraid of women, as Fox had said, or if this had something to do with her title. It was certainly irregular to have a  _ Lady _ in a police station, let alone keep one waiting. Pointedly Edith opened her bag and retried her steno pad, making a show of settling in. Over the top of her notes she watched as Flowers dithered for a moment longer before relaxing and, eventually, retrieving his book from under the desk. 

The station was quiet, save the low din of people doing their job. Edith could almost fall asleep. She almost did, by the time Detective Fox emerged from his office. She’d read through her notes twice and had started counting floor tiles when she heard Fox’s distinctive baritone. 

“Thank you for your time, I will most likely have further follow up questions so please, continue to remain in London.”

“Honey, we’re headliners at  _ The Green Mill _ , we’re not goin’ anywhere.” Chastity Ellis’ voice was unmistakable. Edith was accustomed to American accents, Cora Crawley had never quite lost hers, even after thirty years of living at Downton, but Mrs. Ellis’ accent was nothing at all like what Edith was used to. She supposed it came with being from the south, but it sounded almost excessively American. The trio of Mr. and Mrs. Ellis, plus Detective Fox arrived in the Foyer as Edith stood up. Not in her performance outfit Mrs. Ellis was not quite as tall as Edith remembered, but still had several inches on her husband. Mr. Ellis was dressed in an immaculate, casual grey two piece suit with a fair isle vest, knit burgundy tie, and small jeweled lapel pin. He looked more like a kindly, dandy neighbor than a master jazz soloist.

“What’s the matter, you never seen a black and white married couple?” Chastity Ellis had a fine voice but it seemed her true talent was noticing women so much as look at her husband. Although, Edith supposed the woman had a reason to be defensive, interracial marriage was illegal in her home state as well as several others back in America, and while not illegal in Britain there were undoubtedly some who would be scandalized. 

“As far as I’m concerned a person is entitled to marry whomever they like.” For a moment Mrs. Ellis studied her, eyes narrow and flinty.

“Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.” The last time they had met Edith had been wearing enough makeup to paint a house and a dress several inches shorter than she’d prefer. This time she was dressed for work: a checked wool cape in shades of brown, beige and grey over a russet silk blouse and appropriate length skirt, a grey cloche covering her hair. 

“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure, Lady Edith Crawley.” ‘Marigold’ always spoke so carelessly, with a touch of a Yorkshire accent, Edith now spoke with all the polish she tried to rub off her alter ego. Joseph Ellis looked like he was experiencing a touch of déjà vu, but refrained from commenting. Mrs. Ellis was supremely skeptical as she shook her hand. 

Roses. 

Overpoweringly so. Cloyingly so. 

_ There was one girl. Could smell her perfume on him a mile off. Sickly smell - like dead roses.  _ Sally Mason’s voice floated through her mind. 

“That is a lovely fragrance you’re wearing, what’s it called?” Chastity Ellis was still defensive, but her eyes softened a fraction at the compliment. 

“ _ Midnight Rose _ .”

“Lady Edith,” Fox interrupted, “I believe you wished to speak with me.” He jerked his head toward his office. With polite nods all around she followed him down the hall. 

.

“What are you doing here?” Fox hissed softly, partially closing his office door behind them. It cut through her swirling thoughts and brought her back to the moment at hand.  _ Roses. Cloying rose perfume.  _ Lots of women favored floral perfume, and rose was probably the most common of all floral scents, so it was far from a smoking gun.  _ But. _ Chastity Ellis  hated Lionel Wellington. (Edith would absolutely loathe the man blackmailing her for sexual favors, too.) Ellis was a part of the house band where Wellington was one of the house dancers. He had ample opportunity to find something to hold over her, and he was certainly getting cosy with  _ someone _ who wore rose perfume. 

“I came to see if you were actually following up on those leads I gave you. And I think-”

“Leads?” Fox cut her off, sitting down heavily in his swivel chair. “Your ‘leads’ included ‘Jones didn’t do it’, ‘Wellington blackmailed lots of people’, and ‘he was an abusive partner’. Those weren’t exactly solid tips.”

“You arrested the first person you came across! I hardly think that was superior detective work.” She didn’t think Detective Fox was a bad person but there were times that he made her want to  _ scream _ . For a moment they just stared at one another, she raised a challenging brow at him, he responded in kind.

“As you can see I’ve been looking into everyone at the club.” He broke first and she couldn’t stop the smug grin from spreading across her features. 

“As have I,” She took a seat across the desk from him. “And I think I have a  _ solid  _ tip for you now.” 

“By all means,” He gestured for her to continue, his face impassive although his dark eyes were highly skeptical. 

“I went to see Sally Mason the other day. We had quite the conversation, did you know that in addition to being a blackmailer and abusive Wellington was unfaithful?” 

“He sounds like an all around charming man, it’s a wonder someone didn’t kill him sooner. However, Miss Mason has an alibi.”

“I know she does, I’m not suggesting  _ she  _ did it. Sally didn’t know the names of all of Wellington’s paramours but she clearly remembers one wore a very distinctive  _ rose perfume _ .” He looked at her blankly for a moment.

“You don’t mean  _ Mrs. Ellis _ ? She’s crazy about her husband.” 

“I didn’t say it was consensual. Wellington was in the business of blackmail, if he had something over Mrs. Ellis, or maybe even Mr. Ellis, he could have demanded sex as easily as money.” Fox actually considered this, one side of his mouth turning down slightly as he thought. 

“Who was he blackmailing, Mister or Missus Ellis?”

“I don’t know. You’ve got contacts - look into yours and I’ll look into mine.” She didn’t have contacts, not really. Not unless she talked to Tintagel Sloane again, and she wasn’t sure if she could get the information from him without hating herself afterward. Fox studied her for a moment before nodding. 

“Fair enough, will you share what you learn?”

“Will you?” He nodded once, and then shifted in his seat. There was surprising uncertainty in his eyes as they swept over her, as if he was debating with himself about what he would say next. 

“There was a photographer at  _ The Green Mill _ the night Wellington died and we’ve had their photos developed,” He eventually began, pulling a stack of photographs from his desk. Edith stood and rounded his desk as he began to lay them out across the already cluttered surface. Half under a photo of the band was an open file, a close up image of the stab wound partially covered. 

“Is this the autopsy file?” Whatever Fox wanted to show her in the pictures would have to wait. She’d wondered about Wellington’s time of death, the coroner at the time had said that Wellington died less than three hours before he was found. She had been checking everyone’s alibis based on this assessment, but it had been cold that night, if he’d been dead longer that could possibly put more people in the frame for the murder. Curious she picked up the file, the typed report under the photos.

“Lady Edith that is confidential! There are photos!” Fox tried to snatch the folder away from her but she quickly side stepped him, retreating to the other side of his desk. 

“I found the body, I know the nature of his injuries, I’m not going to be shocked.” She’d also nursed wounded soldiers at Downton, she had a strong stomach and could get clinical distance from nudity as easily as Dr. Clarkson could. In fact looking at the photo of the knife wound, close cropped and completely clean of blood one could almost pretend they were looking at something else and not a man. There was a bit of tearing around the entry wound, making it look thin and oblong, but as the report immediately stated, it was too thin to be any standard blade. In fact it was thin, long (about nine inches), with a round tip - much more akin to a dart than a knife. She looked again at the photo. Thin, nine inches long, perfectly straight with a sharp round tip. Even an ice pick was thicker than the hole in the photo.

“Hat pin.” She rarely needed to use a hat pin any more, the cloche style was secure enough on her head that it didn’t require any help. But her mother had an impressive collection of pins, she remembered being fascinated by them as a little girl. She could never touch them (part of her obsession right there) - they were too sharp but also so pretty, with different gems and bobbles on the end. 

“Excuse me?” Fox appeared at her elbow, she gestured to the photo. 

“This wound, your coroner points out that it is too thin to be made by a knife. He suggests a dart of some sort or a rapier. There wasn’t any sword play at ‘the Mill’ that night. However this wound could also have been made by a hat pin.”

“A ladies’ hat pin.” Fox seemed skeptical (or perhaps he was unfamiliar with pins, sometimes men could be completely ignorant when it came to women’s fashion - Lord knew her father could be).

“Yes, they’re thin, round, wickedly sharp, and can be quite long. And very sturdy, especially some of the older ones.” The Detective looked at the photo for a long moment, and then at her for a slightly shorter moment, and then back to the photo. 

“A hat pin.” He reached over to his desk and riffled through some papers until he came up with a report. Licking a finger he flipped through several pages before quickly skimming something. “There’s no mention of any hat pins in the report on the guests.”

“That’s not entirely surprising, Dr. Bullard at the time told everyone they were looking for a stiletto.”

“Still, the constables should have made note of it, those things are bloody sharp!” She could tell by his tone that he was going to tear a strip out of someone as soon as she left, probably Constable Flowers. 

“There were so many people there that night and it’s quite possible that some of the younger lads don’t even know what a hat pin is, they’re not quite as fashionable now.” She wasn’t wearing one, there was no need. 

“Everyone knows what a hat pin is.” 

“Let’s find out.” He’d gone from skeptical to acting like a hat pin was as universally well known as a shoe. Edith carefully took her hat off and sat it on Fox’s desk before heading toward the constables’ desks. 

Only young Constable Hill was in the bullpen. He looked younger than Constable Flowers, probably because he  _ was  _ younger than Flowers, fresh out of school, his first year on the force. Hill was a nice young man, a bit wet-behind-the-ears yet, but very sweet. 

“Excuse me, Constable Hill?” The poor boy jumped, snapping to attention like she was the police commissioner himself. 

“My - My Lady?” His blue eyes were wide and a little frightened. 

“How does a woman secure a hat?”

“Sir?” Fox was behind her and Hill appealed to him for help. 

“It’s a silly sounding question, I know, but how do you think a woman keeps the hat she’s wearing on her head?” The youth opened his mouth several times, his eyes pleading for help from Detective Fox before he gave up with a small shrug.

“I don’t know, My Lady, she just wears it? She puts it on her head and she wears it?”

“Thank you, Constable Hill.” Her point was proven. Hill was one of the constables tasked with searching guests that night. He was already a bit timid, and there were hundreds of people. He clearly didn’t know how women’s hats worked so there was no reason to expect him to pay that close attention to details like accessories.

.

“I don’t think that Mrs. Ellis was wearing a hat on stage.”

“There’s a dressing room, it wouldn’t be hard to take a hat pin, use it, and then put it back. Hiding in plain sight.” bamboozling Constable Hill about hats now over Edith and Fox returned to his office.

“Perhaps, I’ll still have Flowers go over all of the photos from the night to see if anyone is wearing a hat.”

“You had said something about photos.” Before she’d been distracted by the coroner’s report Fox had wanted to show her something. Beside her the Detective tensed. 

“Yes, there’s something I wanted to ask you about.” He picked up the stack of photos and began flipping through them as she settled into his visitor’s chair. Fox took a deep breath and then carefully laid a photograph in front of her. 

It was a picture of her. Four inches tall by six inches long, black and white. A photograph of her. 

And Anthony. 

It had been taken just after she’d hissed in his ear to follow her, right before she’d threaded her arm through his to march him out the door to the alley. He’d been stiff as a board and she so angry she could hardly see straight. The reunion had been tense, to say the least. 

There was a different sort of tension in the photograph. 

Without the emotional context, without knowing their past the photo told a very different story. They stood, in sharp focus, so close they were nearly touching. In fact her hand was still on the back of his neck, the other one braced on his chest. (It had been necessary to steady herself when she’d gone up on tip toes to reach his ear). Her chin was lifted, her head slightly tilted as she looked up at him through hooded eyes. Anthony, for his part, had his left hand on her hip, his own head tilted slightly as he looked down at her. 

_ Oh.  _

“Your neighborhood must be a lot closer knit than mine.” 

**#**

The news that a photographer was at  _ the Green Mill _ was not nearly as exciting when he realized just how many photos he’d have to sort through if he hoped to find anything of use. David Fox had spent his entire morning sorting through pictures of the night club. He divided the hundreds of photos into three categories. The smallest was the most important, pictures of Lionel Wellington or pictures where Wellington was immediately identifiable in the background. These were important to try and narrow down who he spoke to and how friendly the chats seemed to be. The largest category were the photos of the room, without a particularly clear subject or focal point other than the crowd. These would have to be gone over a second time with a magnifier, something he could probably make one of the constables do. The third category consisted of photos of people or small groups. These would be useful if they needed to try and identify anyone with Wellington. The photographer, a skinny kid working for one of the tabloids, wasn’t a particularly good photographer. Not that Fox had any special knowledge of art. Most of the photos however felt flat - too staged, with no dynamic range. There were a few exceptions (perhaps there was potential there). Photos of the band certainly were evocative, there was the occasional action shot of dancers that had some feeling. Generally the candids were better than any of the group shots where everyone was trying too hard. 

There was a run of these fake grin poses (as if the cameraman was going from table to table) and he was just about to give up and get a cup of tea for variety when a wild photo of Lady Edith appeared. 

He had thought that there was something more between her and Sir Anthony Strallan than just “neighbors”. It had been in the little things - how close they stood together, the way her eyes followed him, how his eyes softened when he looked at her. The familiarity in their touch. They had a gravity which kept the other in their orbit at all times. It had been in the big things - him wrapping her in his coat. The way he flushed and stared every time her skirt moved. And it had been in the confusing things - the way she nearly bit him for offering his jacket, the way he would flinch as if struck at a look, and how heartbroken her eyes had been when she thought no one was paying attention. 

And then the picture. 

It was not an image of two neighbors bumping into one another. 

These were lovers. 

.

She had lied to him. He wasn’t sure why it nagged at him. She’d lied to him before - “I’m not going to meddle”; “I’ll let you do your job”; “I won’t do anything stupid”. She lied to him all the time but this one, this lie…

If she had just lied and introduced Sir Anthony as her neighbor and then he found this picture he would easily assume she was having a secret tryst. But their body language didn’t just say ‘lover’. Oh there were moments it absolutely did. And then there were times it was more than that, it said ‘beloved’. If it had just been that he might suspect she was betrothed without her family’s approval. Scandalous but safe and  _ really  _ none of his business. 

Except the body language didn’t just say that. It also spoke of fear and hurt and  _ anger.  _

David would not consider Lady Edith Crawley a friend. He barely knew the woman. Their few interactions were almost always defined by her doing something reckless and stupid, going against his direct wishes. She meddled, she skirted the law. And yet her heart was always in the right place. She was willing to chance arrest if she thought it would help someone who needed her. Lady Edith and her sisterhood of misfits could also do things that he could not. 

She needed to stop playing detective for her own safety. And for his sanity she needed to just let him do his job rather than butting in all the time. But she deserved to be happy and safe. Whomever this Sir Anthony was, he could threaten that. He had to ask. Without him there perhaps she’d even answer truthfully.

He watched her intently as he tipped his hand, laying the photo out on his desk. In the visitor’s chair her breath caught sharply. 

“ _ Oh. _ ” she whispered. 

“Your neighborhood must be a lot closer knit than mine.” She didn’t look at him. For a moment she could only stare at her image in black and white. Finally she spoke, looking down at her hands rather than at him for the photo. 

“He was more than just our neighbor.”  _ Clearly _ he wanted to say, but resisted. He’d learned over the years that sometimes sarcasm could help move an interview along but sometimes it could shut down the witness entirely. He’d have to wait for Lady Edith to tell him in her own time. “We were engaged once.” She finally admitted. “We met before the war, and I was  _ so certain  _ we had an understanding, but he went away…” Her fingers tightened around one another. “We found one another again after and I thought… I thought we were going to be so happy.” Her voice was tight and painfully small. He always felt so helpless when people cried. He didn’t know how to comfort them, nor did he know how to fix what was wrong. The best he could do was fish out his handkerchief and offer it to her awkwardly. She waved it away and took a deep breath before tipping her head back - like she might force the tears back with gravity. Her eyes were shining and slightly red but her cheeks were dry. 

“Did he ever  _ hurt _ you?” He had to ask. War changed men. He knew it himself. He wasn’t the same man who went to France. That young man had made Christmas plans because obviously the war would be won and he’d be home with his family before epiphany. He’d sung about packing up all his troubles and about that dear Mademoiselle from Armentières. That man could handle a bit of mud on his shoes and he didn’t feel nauseous around smoke.

“He was the one who broke off the engagement, so  _ yes _ .” She snapped, “He broke my heart _. _ ” He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The war changed men. Fox knew of some men who would catch and release a spider before the war, who afterward only seemed able to process their emotions with their fists. The more self-aware of these men took up boxing. He’d had to arrest a captain from his own company who preferred to use his wife. 

The relief must have shown on his face because suddenly Lady Edith was sitting straighter and rather than tears there was incandescent fury in her eyes. 

“You thought that he’d  _ hurt  _ me?!” She hissed. “That’s why he left in the first place! He was so convinced he’d hurt me that he’d rather shatter both our hearts than chance the possibility! Stupid, bloody noble man, like he wouldn’t take off his other arm before he’d harm me! Anthony Strallan is the finest man I’ve ever met, don’t you  _ dare  _ suggest otherwise.” 

Fox was backing away from her fury before he fully registered he was moving. She was utterly terrifying when she was truly angry. He’d thought he’d seen her upset before, but that was nothing compared to this. When they’d first met he’d not given her convictions enough credit, but she had managed to bring justice for Alice Waters. He’d underestimated her willingness to hunt for the truth and now he had underestimated her feelings for her former finacé. Sir Anthony must be something indeed if she would defend him this viscerally, even after he broke off their engagement. Given the palpable sexual tension in the photo between them there was certainly a physical dimension to their relationship, but there had to be more than that. If  _ that  _ was all there was she would have surely moved on, probably taking Michael Gregson up on his blatant offer. At the time he had wondered if she was truely so naive as to miss Gregson’s clear signs (really, inviting her to dinner at his house before a party where he couldn’t provide the barest of details didn’t scream ‘up to no good’?), now it was clear she wasn’t interested in Gregson. 

He held up his hands. “I have to ask.” It was a part of his job. Lady Edith continued to glare at him. He cleared his throat and racked his brain for something to diffuse the situation. 

“I take it you don’t want me to throw him in our most uncomfortable cell overnight, then?” A beat, and then a bright smile spread across her features, wiping away her tears and her anger. She laughed. 

“No, no thank you.” She picked up the photograph. “May I keep this? It couldn’t possibly be germane to the investigation.” There was a faint blush across her cheeks as she looked at it again. 

“I’m afraid not.” He carefully took the picture from her, placing it face down on his desk out of her reach. 

“And  _ why not _ ?” She leaned forward for it but he caught her on the shoulder and gently pushed her back into her seat. 

“Because it’s still evidence in an ongoing murder investigation, directly relevant or not, I cannot just give away pieces of evidence.” Plus it would be good leverage if he called Sir Anthony in for a chat. Fox believed Lady Edith in that she didn’t consider Sir Anthony a threat to her. It was obvious that she still loved him deeply.  _ But _ . Better be safe than sorry, at least for the moment. She reached for the photo again and he rapped her knuckles. “Lady Edith,  _ No _ .” She pulled her hand back with a huff. 

“ _ Fine _ .”

**#**

“So, tell me Edith  _ Rouletabille _ ,” Lori smirked over the bottle of red vermouth, “how goes the murder inquiry?” Despite being a guest Lori had insisted on taking the role of bartender (“look, there are very few things I am objectively good at, this is one of them”). 

“The question isn’t who had a reason to kill Lionel Wellington but who  _ didn’t _ .” Unlike the first time Edith had tried to visit Bread Street for dinner, Opal and Lori arrived on time and without uncovering an abortion ring. They were now lounging in her freshly decorated flat, a long work week behind them. 

“Oh come now, you’ve had this case for over a week, surely you’ve almost solved it by now.” Lori added a generous pour of Campari to the highball glass, examined the color closely and then added a splash more vermouth. 

“I haven’t  _ solved  _ it,” She protested, although she could feel a smug grin creeping across her face. “But I have identified the murder weapon - something even the coroner couldn’t do  _ and  _ have a very good idea whodoneit - We just need to figure out the exact details on the motive and when exactly she had the time.”

“I knew it! Good for you.” Lori announced with a laugh as she topped the cocktail with Perrier and garnished it with half an orange slice and twist of lemon. “One sweet  _ Americano _ for  _ mon bijou. _ ” She announced, walking the drink over to her partner who lounged on the settee beside the fire “And how does My Lady take her Campari?”

“However my bartender sees fit to serve it to me.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Lori winked. Moving to London had been the best decision she’d ever made for so many reasons, top of the list was that she found Opal and Lori. 

“I like my cocktails sweet since I’m so bitter.” Opal raised her glass to her partner before taking a satisfied sip. 

“Bitter? No. Sarcastic? Yes.” Edith protested. If anyone had a bitter streak Edith knew it was her. She’d let it fester all those years at Downton, jealously watching everything Mary did and resenting every second of it. 

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Opal is many things, including self aware - she knows that she’s basically a human espresso.” Lori began filling a second highball glass with ice.

“Hmm?”

“Tiny and bitter.” Opal finished with a shrug and a smile. “Anyway, you were about to explain what the murder weapon was and who the killer is!”

“I need to be properly lubricated for the tale.” She gestured to Lori who was measuring out a generous serving of Campari, “And before I tell you who the killer is I need to explain the victim…”

.

Explaining everything she’d learned since finding the body took the entire cocktail hour, the tone increasingly somber after the initial laughs her graceless entry through Wellington’s window garnered. (“Are you sure this isn’t your hobby, Edith?” “ _ Two times _ doesn’t count as a hobby!”) Sullivan Jones and Freddy Welintz were a somber reminder, particularly for Edith, that while her best friends were hiding in plain sight, they were still ultimately hiding a fundamental piece of themselves out of fear of repercussions. Loving someone had Sullivan Jones locked up and Freddy on the lam. Every display of affection had to be calculated to take into account if they were among friends or alone, and a miscalculation (because someone was photographing them without their  _ consent _ ) was ruining their life.

“I wouldn’t blame Sally Mason for killing her fianceé.” Edith skillfully shifted the conversation as Mrs. Lawrence announced that dinner was ready. She quite liked her new housekeeper-cook, who let Edith’s odd schedule, Jekyll/ Hyde (or rather Lady Edith/Marigold) lifestyle, and constant talk of murder roll off her back like water. However, that didn’t mean she knew how open minded the woman was on matters of the flesh. 

“You sure?” Opal countered, eyebrow sharply raised, as Edith led her friends from the seating area around the fireplace to the dining table. Edith could understand her skepticism. Opal  _ might _ forgive but she could never forget someone hurting a friend. The fierce, protective loyalty was novel after Downton where Mary would sooner spit on her than look at her and their parents would inevitably take Mary’s side in the encounter, while Granny would make some  _ charming _ quip that would make her feel so utterly less-than. However there were times that fierce, protectiveness made her feel worse. Opal either wouldn’t or simply  _ couldn’t _ understand how she could still have feelings for Anthony. Or how she could be both righteously furious with him and still only want him to be happy. 

“Just because  _ I personally _ don’t want to murder the man who jilted me doesn’t mean that I can’t understand how someone in a similar situation would.” As close as they had become, there was  _ no way _ Edith would admit she was still speaking to Anthony in front of Opal.

“Mason has an alibi, though, correct?” Lori tactfully turned the conversation back to the murder.

“She does, after Wellington bloodied her lip she went to the back room to clean up, she stayed there through most of the band’s break before returning to the floor and dancing with a few patrons until we found the body.”

“Have you figured out who else was being blackmailed?” Opal asked as Mrs. Lawrence returned with the  _ perdrix aux choux _ . Aunt Rosamund had been scandalized when Edith had announced that she was planning on only engaging one full-time member of staff, a woman capable of being housekeeper and cook, who was married and living elsewhere. But Edith didn’t see the point in a house full of staff when she lived alone in a six room flat and didn’t plan on doing much entertaining, save for a few intimates. Mrs. Lawrence’s husband, John, promised that if she ever needed someone to act as a butler he would be happy to do so. He and Fahy had met in service, she had been the head housemaid and he the under-groundskeeper when they married and moved to London. Day to day Mr. Lawrence now managed a pub along with his brother and sister-in-law. Mrs. Lawrence had stayed home to raise their daughter, but Elizabeth had just left the nest to study at Oxford on scholarship. 

“Yes and no.” Edith admitted. “Jones and Welintz only account for half the money in Wellington’s pocket, I’m sure there were several contributors - whom I’ve yet to identify. However, I know one of the victims and I think she’s the only one I need to know.”

“Ooo!” Lori leaned forward expectantly, tucking her curtain of dark hair behind her ear. “Do tell.”

“Remember how I told you that Sally knew Wellington was having affairs? Well she knows one of the women wore particularly strong, particularly sweet rose perfume. She said she could always smell it on him after they were together. Chastity Ellis  _ also  _ wears a  lot of cloying  _ Midnight Rose _ perfume.”

“To play devil’s advocate,” Opal broke in as Edith stood to ‘play mother’, serving up the pheasant with braised cabbage, carrots, and sausage. “A lot of women wear floral perfume - you favor gardenia, I like lilac, Lori wears sandalwood and vanilla.”

“Yes, well, I don’t know of any other women who wear rose perfume who were being blackmailed by Wellington and have a dressing room at  _ The Green Mill.”  _ She countered. “Both Chastity and her husband insisted that they didn’t know Wellington very well, and yet every time she spoke of him there was visceral hatred in her voice.”

“The lady doth protest too much.” Mrs. Lawrence murmured under her breath as she poured Opal a generous glass of  _ Chambertin 1897 _ . (There were many reasons Edith liked Mrs. Lawrence, one of them was the fact that she never adhered to the standard pour of wine).

“Exactly! I imagine that Wellington found out something about Chastity and threatened to expose her unless she has sex with him. Which she did, until she couldn’t stand it any more. Wellington was stabbed with a nine-inch, extremely thin, straight implement which left a round hole.” Drinks poured and dinner served, Edith sat back down. “Sound familiar in any way?” There was a long moment as Opal and Lori chewed and thought. 

“A hat pin?” Opal eventually ventured. 

“My thought exactly. Chastity decides to get rid of Wellington and his blackmail and coercion. So she takes one of her hat pins, stabs him in the alley and then puts the weapon back in its cushion. Probably assuming that the constables will be looking for a knife and completely ignoring a lady’s ‘fashion accessory’ - which they absolutely did.”

“So what did Wellington have on Chastity?”

“That I don’t know, and it’s not exactly something one can ask. Fox has started looking into her, I’m trying to think of how I can as well, although she’s seen both me and ‘Marigold’ now.”

“Maybe she killed someone, or robbed a bank?” Lori offered. 

“How would Wellington find out about that?”

“Wanted poster.” The nurse shrugged.

.  
  


“Grand Marnier for My Lady,” Lori handed her a snifter before crossing the room to join Opal on the sofa, “Madeira for M’dear and scotch for me. Cheers.” Edith raised her glass and tucked her feet beneath her in the deep chair. Mrs. Lawrence’s pheasant had been good but her lemon chiffon cake had been  _ marvallous _ . The meal had progressed naturally, the conversation drifting from the death of Lionel Wellington to simply chatter about their lives - Lori’s day at work, Opal’s on going battle with her typewriter - the ‘e’ key kept sticking, and one never appreciated the vowel until one was forced to recognize how often they used it. 

“So how are you doing, Edith?” Opal asked, her tone different from the teasing before. She was sitting a little straighter, her dark eyes studying her carefully. This wasn’t a question about her day.

“Fine. I’m fine.”

“Even with seeing  _ him _ again?” Straight to the point.

“Seeing him again was a shock, especially in  _ that  _ context. But I’m fine…” She sipped her brandy. There was no way she’d tell Opal that she was planning on speaking with Anthony again, it would undoubtedly trigger a storm that she had neither the energy nor desire to weather. She wasn’t entirely sure if she should mention the letter. On the one hand, perhaps if she told them about it - the explanation, the closure - they would soften slightly. On the other hand, they were already so set against him. Would they think her weak for reading the letter, for letting him back into her life. For forgiving him?

“I’m fine.” She said again, her voice firm enough she almost believed herself. 

“Edith, are you fine?” Opal asked with a wry, skeptical smile. 

“Yes, why do you ask.”

“No one who is actually ‘fine’ says they are five times in a row. We should play poker some time if this is how you lie.”

“You don’t have to pretend to be alright if you’re not.” Lori added. “I don’t know if I would be if the love of my life just walked back into my life after walking out of our wedding.”

“And then I found a dead body and spent every minute after that either trying to solve his murder or putting together a magazine for publication.” Opal continued. “I doubt I’d have a free moment to even start to think about how I feel. Let alone be ‘fine’.”

“Alright, I’m not fine. I’m…” What was she? How could she even begin to put words on what she was feeling. None were adequate. 

“Confused, angry, and sad?” Lori offered.

“Scared and horny?” Both Lori and Edith shot Opal a look. “What? Those are valid emotions and this is a judgement free space.” She had to snort at that. They had spent all of the cocktail hour and most of the dinner deciding who was the best murder suspect, over dessert they had spent a not inconsiderable amount of time talking about which women’s fashion trends they didn’t like and swapping office gossip.

“Hey! Your feelings are a bit different than handkerchief hemlines or the fact the new girl in the art department is a complete airhead.” 

“What Opal is trying to say is that we love you and we want what’s best for you. And there isn’t anything you can tell us that will change that.” Lori was an excellent nurse. Very calm as she pinpointed the exact problem. 

“I don’t even know where to begin to put words to what I’m feeling. I feel all of it. Everything. So much. When I saw him at ‘the Mill’ I was furious, I wanted to hurt him. I said every terrible thing I could think of. And I did hurt him - except hurting him hurts  _ me. _ When I saw him again I just wanted to bury my head in his chest and have him hold me. I wanted to punch him and kiss him, take him home with me and never see him again.” 

“All perfectly understandable reactions.” 

“I’m feeling less volatile now.”

“That’s good!”

“But not any better.” In fact she felt worse. Reading his letter had been hard. She’d had to stop several times to compose herself, to get ahold of her anger, of her tears. She’d barely slept that night, still turning everything that he had told her over and over again in her head. 

“These things take time.” Lori said sagely, sipping her scotch. 

“Especially when you don’t have any closure. He never gave you an explanation, did he?”

“Well…” she should tell them about the letter. It would help explain what kind of worse she was feeling. “He sent me a letter, the next day.”

“I knew it!”

“How?” She’d not said a word when she’d recieved it.

“Hand delivered and on  _ that  _ stationary. It was pretty clear it wasn’t a letter of business.”

“Opal, hush.” Lori elbowed her partner. “What did he say?”

“He apologized, of course, for walking out on our wedding. And for what hurt more than seeing him leave the church: how he decided to dictate my life for me rather than respect my ability to make a decision. Which was...good. Necessary. Having him acknowledge that...helped.” It really had. Knowing that he recognized just how he hurt her and apologizing for it specifically went a long way toward providing closure. Not enough that she would trust him blindly, but it was one of the things that let her hope that they could move forward. 

“That’s it?” Opal pressed. Lori sent her another sharp look, but didn’t say anything. There was silence between them for a moment as her friends waited for her to continue and Edith debated if she should - and how. 

“He explained.” She began, “Which was also...good. To finally know just what was going through his head when he… He’d said so many things when he left but I never thought they were  _ really  _ what...what was going on. Not the actual reason for him leaving. And I was right.” Her voice was tight as she spoke, the orange brandy only loosening it somewhat. It also helped to focus on the fire, or her fingers, or the reflection in her glass. Anywhere but Opal and Lori. They wanted the best for her, but she couldn’t bear Opal’s skepticism nor Lori’s pity. At least not at the moment. 

“Anthony was in military intelligence during the war, and behind the lines almost the entire time. He…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could say it aloud. She could say it. She might even be able to say it without crying. “He was  _ captured _ toward the end of the war, that was how he injured his arm.” There was a sharp intake of breath from the sofa. Edith refused to look anywhere but the fire. So far the tears were burning her throat but not actually falling. 

“At the time I thought that his concerns about our marriage were centered on his age and disability… and they were. But there was more...Depression, self-loathing, nightmares, isolation. He lost a part of himself. And came home completely untreated for  _ that _ unjury. He had a breakdown at the altar, probably brought on by my Grandmother if I’m honest.” Most certainly brought on by Granny. She could be sharp when she wanted to be, piercing to the heart of whatever it was that you hated most about yourself. And people loved her for it.

“Anthony went from our wedding almost straight to a clinic in Scotland. He wasn’t at all himself  _ That Day _ , in more ways than I realized. But he’s getting better. He’s coping.” He was actually looking well the last time she saw him, his eyes clear and his posture as tall as it had been when she first met him. He was still a little thin, but it was clear he was eating again and gaining back all the weight and muscle he’d lost when he was captured and then continued to lose in his depression.

“You still love him.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Of course I do!” She’d never stopped. She’d fallen for him in 1914 and never got up again. She’d been prepared to marry him twice. It wasn’t a torch she carried for him, it was a bonfire.

“And you forgive him? For everything?”

“Yes.” It hadn’t been his fault. Not really. She’d pushed and pushed and pushed him up the aisle, not once stopping to truly listen to what he was silently screaming with every self-deprecating joke, with ever ‘are you sure?’. She’d been blinded by love, and by her own selfish desire to finally be  _ married  _ to realize that the light had gone out in his eyes. He’d needed help and she’d done nothing to actually provide it. What else was he supposed to do?

“Edith, h _e_ _left_ _you_ _at the altar!_ ” Opal flailed her arms wide, nearly throwing her drink in Lori’s face. 

“He had a nervous breakdown!”

“That doesn’t make everything he did alright, he also  _ hurt you _ in the process.”

“Just my feelings, you make it sound like he hit me.”

“Feelings are still important,” Lori’s voice was calmer than Opal’s, although equally as passionate. She was leaning forward, her face serious. It reminded her of the first time they met, when Edith had called the police to report an assault on an abortion victim - not fully appriciating that the girl she wanted to help could just as easily be arrested. “Didn’t you say that you haven’t been to church since  _ That Day _ . That the idea of setting foot in a chapel made you ill?” It wasn’t the idea of church that made her so upset (although she wouldn’t call herself a particularly devout woman), it was  _ Downton Church _ . Being there, seeing the altar, the pews, that faint scent of old books, wood, candle wax, and silver polish - it always brought her back to  _ That Day _ . Suddenly she could hear him saying good-bye, feel all the horrified stares as everyone -  _ everyone _ watched him leave her. Poor, unfortunate Lady Edith, all dressed up in her best and still not good enough. So desperate to be a bride she’d try to marry a man like that, and even he didn’t want her in the end. The walls would close in and the air would leave the room. 

“So? You don’t go to church either.” She was getting defensive, she could tell. But she couldn’t see the relevance of Lori’s point. They were talking about  _ him.  _

“That’s because I’ll get struck by lightning the moment I walk through the door, not because I relive the worst day of my life every time I see a stained glass window.”

“It’s not any church, just the one.” She made it sound like she’d developed a phobia. 

“Yes, your home parish, where you grew up, where your community is - you can’t stand to be in it anymore because it reminds you of your failed wedding, when the groom  _ left you at the altar  _ in front of all of your friends, family, and half your village. That’s more than just a little upset, dearie, that’s  _ traumatic. _ ”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t forgive him.”

“Ye-” Opal began before Lori cut her off with a firm hand on her knee. 

“There’s forgiving and then there’s forgetting. You love him, so it’s perfectly natural for you to forgive him. But after you forgive him, then what? Do you just pick up like it never happened, like he didn’t do a thing wrong?”

“I wasn’t perfect either! I can’t blame him when I was utterly  _ useless _ . I completely  _ ignored _ the distress he was in.” 

“You’re right, there were things you didn’t handle as well as you might have,” Lori conceded. “However, you also didn’t know the breadth and depth of his experience. You can’t hold yourself responsible for things you didn’t know.”

“And you didn’t know because he didn’t tell you.” Opal jumped in, shaking Lori’s hand from her knee. “He didn’t tell you - he kept an entire part of himself from you, he wasn’t entirely honest about the nature of his war work, his injury, or by extension his health. That’s not  _ trust _ , that’s not treating you like an equal.” Edith threw back the last of her brandy and carefully sat the glass down. Her hand wasn’t quite as steady and she was afraid if she kept holding the sniftner she’d drop it... or throw it. She knew Opal and Lori would have opinions about the return of Anthony, but she’d not expected them to be this set against him. However, she would concede that Lori did have a point, she shouldn’t blame herself for something that she didn’t know. If she’d only known how long he’d been living behind enemy lines - living in fear. If she’d known what had been asked of him…

“You make him sound _terrible_. Anthony is a good person. He lost his way because he was _captured_ , he was probably _tortured._ He lived with that trauma for months after the war, _he had a breakdown_. Those circumstances should be considered. He didn’t do it out of malice. He isn’t capable of malice.”

“Intentional or not he still broke your heart and your trust.” Opal continued to press.

“Then what are you suggesting I do?” Edith sprang to her feet. She needed to move if this conversation was going to continue, work off some energy even if she couldn’t work out what exact emotions she was feeling. She was furious with Opal for seeming so callous to Anthony’s plight and she was furious that she was absolutely right. “Should I cut him out of my life? Refuse to forgive him even though I already have? The thing is, I love him. And I forgive him. I could pretend that I don’t, but  _ I do _ . I will  _ always  _ love him.”

Opal stood as well, and was then immediately yanked back onto the couch by Lori. The nurse shot her partner a very firm look and clutched her hand like a vice. 

“Opal and I only want the best for you.” Lori began.

“Only  _ I _ can decide what’s best for  _ me. _ ” She was tired of other people thinking they could determine “the best for her”. Even her friends seemed to think she was incapable. 

“You’re absolutely right. And we aren’t saying any different. But I - we- have a perspective we think might be helpful as you think through everything.” Lori had a very soothing bedside manner when she wanted. Edith wanted to be annoyed with her but was finding it increasingly difficult as she listened to her soothing voice. 

“The heart wants what the heart wants and farbeit for me to tell you who or how you should love.” She squeezed Opal’s hand. “And there are some excellent clinics in Scotland. Therapy has done wonders for some - helping them make sense of their experience, treat their nightmares, help them cope with civilian life again.” Edith felt her anger melt slightly and confusion take its place. One moment they were checking in, the next they were slagging off Anthony, now Lori was talking about love and therapy. 

“If you don’t listen to any of our advice, at least consider this: You might love him to the moon and back, but you’re both different people now. You need to get to know one another again, to build trust again. Go slow.” Opal took a deep breath and carefully intervened.

“I think -  _ we _ think - it’d be best if you took some time, some serious time, to figure out what you want out of a relationship, what you’re willing to give, and what your boundaries are.”

Opal and Lori left not long after, the atmosphere heavy. Mrs. Lawrence cleared away the plates and glasses silently. Edith poured herself another Grand Marnier and stared into the fire, tucking her feet up under her. 

_ That doesn’t make everything he did alright, he also  _ hurt you _ in the process. _

_ You can’t hold yourself responsible for things you didn’t know. _

_ The thing is, I love him. And I forgive him. I could pretend that I don’t, but  _ I do _. I will  _ always _ love him. _

_ What do you want out of a relationship? What are you willing to give? What are your boundaries? _

She was meeting with Anthony in less than forty eight hours, in case she didn’t have enough to think about before seeing him..

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now pretty much obsolete, once upon a time hat pins were considered a menace to society. Several cities and states in America actually passed laws regulating hat pin length because women were using them as weapons. In Chicago, for example, you had to obtain a permit for any pin over nine inches long. People frequently like to dismiss women’s fashion and accessories as fripperies and frivolous but it rarely is. There is so much political and social history in what women chose to wear. Hat pins are a great example of this: they look cute, keep your hat on, and if men won’t leave you alone you can stable them! Legislators’ fears about hat pins calmed down after World War I in part because hat styles changed, and because a new menace to society emerged - the flapper. 
> 
> International Bartender’s Association recipe for a sparkling Americano. The drink was first served in Gaspare Campari’s bar in 1860, it’s a valid cocktail in its own right but probably best known in one of two contexts: If one adds gin to an Americano it becomes a Negroni (“invented” in 1919, popularlized in the 30s and 40s. According to Orson Wells: “ The bitters are excellent for your liver, the gin is bad for you. They balance each other.”) The Americano is also famous for appearing in Casino Royale (1953) and a few other Fleming novels/short stories.. Bond always specifies the sparkle be Perrier water rather than any old club soda or sparkling water. But Bond is also a pretentious ass when it comes to food, so take that for what you will. Mon bijou = French: My jewel or gem. I will confess I used the internet for this, French is so not one of my languages. 
> 
> I’m most familiar with LGBT History in the United States. Most people consider the start of the start of the Gay Rights movement to be the Stonewall Riots in June of 1969 (which were anti-police brutality/descrimination riots - Gays came out of the closet swinging in ‘69). Despite the protests, riots, and movement there were still anti-sodomy laws on the books in 2003. These were finally overturned in the Supreme Court case Lawrence v. Texas (meaning that homosexual sex was only legalized everywhere 17 years ago). The SCOTUS legalized same-sex marriage in 2015. This being said there are some serious threats to and repeals of anti-descrimination legislation in the works now. I’m less familiar with the arc of LGBT history in the UK, but a very cursory look suggests 1967 saw the end of prosecutions for consentual sex between legal adults.
> 
> I am in no way a mental health professional of any sort but I think it’s abundantly clear that Anthony is suffering from PTSD in addition to having difficulty adjusting to life with a disability. Not that this completely excuses him running out of the church but it sure as hell explains it. Unpacking what PTSD would mean in the 1920s was probably more work than the writers wished to do, but it is still an absolute crime that they created this wounded, traumatized veteran only to throw him away like that. It’s not like those issues aren’t relevant today. This story is undoubtedly not going to address PTSD as thoroughly as it should, but I do hope to take some time to think through what Anthony and Edith’s relationship will look like if actually addressing his mental health and disabilities. 
> 
> Finally, as funny as I find Violet Crawley, she can be such a bitch sometimes and no one ever calls her out on things! Like sick burn, I guess, but also incredibly condescending!


	7. I've Purged My Soul and My Heart too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference to forced marriage, domestic abuse, and a misscarriage. It’s more or less confined to one section, which is marked beginning and end with **.

“Dearheart, I love you, and you’re my favorite niece, but you are terrible company tonight.” Rosamund gave her a very thorough look as she topped up their wine glasses. Since moving into her own place at the start of the New Year Rosamund had made it a point to have Edith back for dinner once every two weeks or so. She claimed it was because she missed having someone else in the house, but Edith ws fairly certain she was checking up on her. To be fair, Edith was well aware she resembled a wet blanket. She’d not slept well the night before, despite having a third a bottle of wine and two brandies. At three she’d finally gotten up and sat at her desk, trusty steno pad open before her. 

_ What do you want out of a relationship? What are you willing to give? What are your boundaries? _

Across the top of the steno pad she’d eventually written: THINGS I WILL APOLOGIZE FOR. A third of the way down she wrote: I WANT AN APOLOGY, and a third of the way down from there she added: BOUNDARIES. She’d then spent the next three and a half hours filling six pages trying to organize her thoughts into those three categories. She’d gone to bed around six thirty, the sky above London turning shades of orange, purple, and blue as the sun slowly rose for the day. She’d slept until nearly noon, when Mrs. Lawrence arrived to give her her next cooking lesson. Eggs. Thankfully it hadn’t been another lesson on knife skills because Edith’s mind was incapable of focusing on the task before her. Although that distraction did mean she could make scrambled eggs. Unfortunately she managed to scramble every single egg she tried to make - even the ones she was supposed to be poaching. 

After a lunch of scrambled eggs on toast, she’d tried, in vain, to focus on anything other than Anthony and her half finished list of desires and demands. She had actual work to be doing - an article to write (with the death of William Strang on the third she had originally intended to do a piece on the importance of illustration to literature, however with William Blake Richmond dying just two days ago, she was now considering shifting the topic to the role of accessible art in society), as well as a gossip column to come up with ( _El Paradis_ on Friday had been decadent, charming, and vaguely threatening). When words failed her she had tried reading and music. In the end nothing could turn her focus to matters at hand. 

Ultimately she had arrived at Bond House distracted, weak and vulnerable. Smelling blood in the water Rosamund had pounced. 

“Is everything alright?” Edith sighed and hid behind her wine for a few moments. 

“I’ve had a lot on my mind with the magazine. And Mama’s written again. Not sure how to respond, but I need to - soon.” Edith, even as a child, had found that the best way to lie was to tell the truth - or at least most of it. This was no different; Cora really had written, the letter arriving in Friday’s post. It had been a pleasant enough note all in all, nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone in good health, Mary was four months pregnant (Isn’t it just delightful, she’ll make  _ such a good mother! _ ), everyone was excited at the prospect of an heir, everyone was excited for Valentine's Day. Oh by the way Darling, I hope working isn’t interfering with your true calling which is to become a wife. Shall I write to some acquaintances and try to find you a socially acceptable groom who’ll make me and Papa  _ very happy? _ Her mother meant well, but she could be exhausting sometimes. Even at a distance. Rosamund clucked sympathetically. 

“Oh Dearheart, your mother means well, even if she also makes it extremely difficult to see that.”

“I know. And I am happy for Mary, she’s wanted a baby for so long now.” Edith didn’t like her sister, she wasn’t sure she would ever like her sister, but she could empathize with her. From the moment she said ‘I do’ someone was asking her if she was expecting yet. She was never allowed to be just a wife before everyone (particularly their parents) had turned her into a broodmare. “But I don’t know what to say, ‘That’s wonderful for Mary. I’m still finding my career and life in London extremely fulfilling even if you and Papa don’t think I should.”

“Maybe try something a little less confrontational.” Edith fought the urge to roll her eyes. She knew better than to write what she actually thought. At least not without drafting it out within an inch of its life first. “You know,” Rosamund continued, “I generally believe that the only two times a woman should lie is about her age or her weight, but in your case I’m glad we made an exception. I shudder to think what my brother and mother would do if they knew you were involved in a murder investigation.” Out of respect for Rosamund’s aversion to lying Edith refrained from telling her she’d gotten involved in another one. 

“...Yeah.” She carefully changed the subject.

**#**

“Good afternoon, Flowers.” Edith didn’t stop as she greeted the young Police Constable at the front desk. She kept walking, straight back to Detective Fox’s office, her steps confident, even as Flowers tried to call her back.

“Lady Edith, please, he’s in a meeting!” A meeting he might have been in, but Fox had left his office door wide open. Inside she could see the Ellises once again, Mrs. Ellis perched uncomfortably on the visitor’s chair in front of Fox’s desk while Mr. Ellis awkwardly tried to pace in the small room. Edith quietly slipped just inside the door frame, if Fox didn’t notice her that was his problem, she wasn’t hiding or sneaking about but in plain sight. She was even wearing a teal cloche and slate blue coat, which stood out against the off white walls and cherry wood paneling. 

“Anything you say to Chastity you can say in front of me!” Ellis declared passionately as he brushed past her, not noticing her presence in the slightest. Fox studied him and then Mrs. Ellis for a moment and then took a deep breath. 

“Very well. Mrs. Reed I don’t believe you’ve been entirely honest with me regarding your relationship with Lionel Wellington.”  _ Mrs. Reed?! _ Edith slipped further into the room. This was entirely new information! But certainly fodder for a blackmailer like Wellington. 

“Excuse you, she hasn’t been Mrs. Reed in over two years.”

“Honey, maybe you should go wait outside.” Mrs. Ellis sounded...scared. For the first time Edith heard something other than unabashed confidence from the other woman. 

“What?!” With everyone’s attention on Mrs. Ellis (Mrs. Reed?) Edith moved along the wall until she was in the corner behind Fox’s right shoulder. Mr. Ellis’ face was pure confusion while Mrs. Ellis appeared as scared and...sad as she sounded. “No. Chastity, what is going on?”

“I have a copy of your marriage certificate, which you filed when you both moved to England, as part of Mrs. Ellis’ immigration packet,” Fox pulled a crisp paper from a manilla file folder. “It lists Mrs. Chastity Grace Reed née Colman, of Roanoke, Virginia the widow of Mr. Jacob Reed also of Roanoke, marrying a Mr. Joseph Allan Ellis, formerly a bachelor of Lincolnshire in Melbourne, Australia 31 December 1918. New Years Eve wedding, how nice.”

“It was, thank you.” Mr. Ellis fairly spat. 

“I also have here a telegraph from the Roanoke Police in Ole Virginia, who very helpful answered my inquiry despite it being the weekend.” Chastity was rapidly turning a striking shade of green. It clashed horribly with her natural completion and the dramatic orange coat she was wearing. 

“What was Lionel Wellington blackmailing you about, Mrs. Ellis, the fact you’re still wanted for assault and theft in America or the fact that Jacob Reed is still alive?”

“WHAT?!” Ellis’ roar of confusion covered Edith’s own sharp intake of breath. Mrs. Ellis was a bigamist! And, apparently a thief. “You told me he had  died !” 

****** “And I prayed every day for _years_ that he had.” Chastity was on her feet. “Jake got me pregnant at _sixteen_ and Daddy forced us down the aisle the minute he found out. He went out drinking a month later and came home and beat me within an inch of my life. I lost the baby - _my_ _baby_! I was in the hospital a full week and all the cops did was ‘caution’ him.” She spat, tears making her dark eyes glitter. “It didn’t change a damn thing. He kept on beating me. I scrimped and saved for ten years. And then Jake found my money! He was going to spend it all because ‘whatever was mine was _his_ ’ and I couldn’t let that happen.” Her hands curled into fists at the memory. “So I hit him, picked a cast iron pan up off the stove and hit him. I really thought I’d killed him. I took my money and _I ran_. I ran all the way to Australia. I was prepared to keep running when I met you, Joseph. I love you. You made me want to stay.” She finally looked to her husband. ******

Edith’s heart broke for Mrs. Ellis. She was forced into a marriage while she was still a girl. And there had been no one there to protect her, not even the police. Even in her own grief Edith wasn’t distracted from the interaction before her. Mrs. Ellis was scared, sad, and searching for comfort. Mr. Ellis was angry, horrified, and then looked sick himself. It was this last expression that drew her up short. 

“Lionel Wellington was black mailing me and I killed him.” She announced, standing straighter and turning back to Fox. Edith looked between Fox and Mr. Ellis. He had seen the expression too. The sick expression, the fear in his eyes...the realization. 

“You killed him.” Fox repeated. 

“That’s what I said.” Chastity snapped. 

“Alright. Explain it to me. How exactly did you kill him - what did you use, when did you confront him, how did you stab him, where’s the murder weapon now?” He was skeptical. She realized she’d known him long enough that she could tell when he was being particularly skeptical. Watching Joseph Ellis’ face she could predict Fox’s suspicions. 

If Wellington was blackmailing Chastity, it was entirely possible that Ellis found out about the sex and assumed the worst. Rather than murder his (assumed) adulterous spouse, whom he still loved, he instead took it upon himself to kill her lover. Except he wasn’t speaking up. 

“I stabbed him - in that back alley. He was always out there doing his filthy business. I snuck up behind him and  _ I stabbed him _ .” She made a gesture like she was holding the knife in her fist, driving it hard down. 

“You stabbed him with what?” Fox pushed. 

“A knife! What else do you stab someone with?”

“And what’d you do with it afterward? We didn’t find any knife beside the body.” Fox crossed his arms. She was lying. She had absolutely no idea how Wellington died and Fox was feeding her enough rope to tie her conviction up in knots. 

“Smuggled it out in my garterbelt.”

“The constable who searched you made no note of a weapon.”

“Honey, it was so far up my thigh, if that little boy had tried to look I’d have slugged him.” Of all the lies she’d told at least this one seemed plausible. Only having male constables, young ones at that, it was perfectly reasonable that they wouldn’t search a lady in certain places.

“Chastity Ellis I am arresting you for the murder of Lionel Wellington.” Fox announced, looking directly at Mr. Ellis. For her part Mrs. Ellis held her head high as she was handcuffed and taken to a cell. 

**#**

“She is  _ lying _ .” Lady Edith hissed at him the moment he set food back in his office. He’d seen her sneak in, of course. She wasn’t half as stealthy as she thought she was, but he’d not wanted to stop everything just to throw her out. 

“She signed a confession.”

“Still lying - none of what she described actually happened! She just made it up!”

“To be fair,” he found himself countering, only believing about a third of what he was about to say, “we don’t know for  _ a fact  _ Wellington was stabbed with a hat pin. That was you and your intuition.” 

“My intuition!” Lady Edith spluttered. “You make it sound so hocus-pocus - even you agreed that a hat pin fits the description of the weapon the coroner gave us.” 

“That’s still not enough evidence to overturn her  _ signed confession. _ ” 

“She was completely wrong about the angle of attack.”

“She didn’t say ‘this is exactly how I stabbed him’ that could be interpreted as a simple dramatic gesture.” It was very clear that Lady Edith wanted to rip her hair out - or perhaps his. In either case her hands were balled in fists resting against his desk. “For what it’s worth I agree with you - her confession doesn’t hold up. But unless we find sufficient evidence - hard evidence to disprove it - or her husband confesses and she recants - her confession stands.”

“What kind of gentleman lets his wife take the rap for them?” She blustered, picking up one of the action portraits of the trumpet player from the scattered mess on his desk. She glared at it so sharply that her expression might have killed him. “ _ Oh! _ ”

“Oh?” It had sounded very much like an epiphany, although David couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing in Lady Edith’s case. The Lady herself didn’t answer right away and instead reached across his desk and helped herself to his magnifying glass.

“Take a look at Mr. Ellis’ lapel pin.” She thrust the magnifier and photo into his hands. It took him a moment to adjust the magnifying glass and to figure out what he was supposed to be looking at. The photo itself was an action shot of Mr. Ellis playing the trumpet, his cheeks large and round, his fingers vaguely blurred as they danced over the valves. He was wearing a dark suit, rendered black in the picture, and a light shirt, a sort of grey white on the film. His tie was floral and on his lapel was a pin - about the size of a pound, a light colored paste gem in the center surrounded by seed pearls and fine metal filigree. It was set at a slightly odd angle, the head more tilted up rather than facing out where someone might better admire it from head on.

“What about it?”

“Doesn’t it strike you as a little feminine?” Perhaps, he would concede, but then as someone who at most wore a watch, he knew he was the last person who should judge personal adornment. “And the angle a little off? Like it’s meant to be viewed more from its end rather than the side…” She leaned over and drew a finger down the photo, after the strong rose scent Mrs. Ellis favored her faint gardenia perfume seemed fresh and light. “Plus a typical men’s stick pin should end about here.” She pointed. “But the tip cap on this particular pin is all the way...here.” Much further down his lapel, almost out of the frame he could see the small metal tip cap with the help of the magnifier. 

“And?” Edith’s index finger moved to his own lapel. She poked him first in the button hole and then drug her finger down to about the same place the tip cap was in the photo. 

“Doesn’t that look to be about nine inches?” She was very close. And she was rather pretty, even if he wasn’t particularly attracted to her and he knew that there was still  _ something  _ going on between her and that neighbor, Sir Anthony. He could feel the heat rising up the back of his neck and he stepped away. 

“I’ll, erm, put some pressure on Ellis and see what happens…” He adjusted his collar, mainly for want of something to do. “Would you like to come along?” Lady Edith was often an annoyance, but there were times she was also tremendously useful. Like when he needed something extra-legal done. People responded differently to her than they did to him - she was a woman, a Lady, and perhaps most importantly not a police officer. She could go places and have people tell her things they would never tell him. Lady Edith looked him over and then checked her watch. She winced. 

“You’ll have to hold his feet to the fire without me, I’m afraid I have to get ready for another appointment.” She began putting on her gloves. “Mrs. Ellis isn’t going to recant. She knows he did it and is protecting him. She loves him, she won’t back down.” 

**#**

Edith took a deep breath and sunk entirely below the water in her clawfoot tub. The tub was larger than most, and was one of the few things she had personally specified and picked out, rather than leaving it to Aunt Rosamund or the decorators. It took longer to fill, especially to fill deep enough to really soak in. But if one took the time it was absolutely worth it. For a few brief moments she felt weightless and insulated from the world.

“Lady Edith,” Very faint and far away sounding Aunt Rosamund’s maid, Robinson, called for her. “My Lady?” Thus far the only downside in her decision not to hire a dedicated lady’s maid was that while Mrs. Lawrence could help button her into a dress, the Welsh woman was, by her own admission, terrible at styling hair. Aunt Rosamund had been kind enough to loan her use of her maid for the few occasions that she felt she needed more hair help than she could do herself. 

“Ma’m?” Edith sat up in the bath, before the poor woman assumed the worst had happened. “ACK!” As she breached the surface a small wave sloshed over the tub, surprising the maid as much as her sudden appearance did. Edith slopped her hair out of her eyes and gave Miss Robinson an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry about that, I was thinking.” Miss Robinson gave her a professionally blank look, the kind she must have practiced for years before she was allowed to become a lady’s maid. 

“Of course, My Lady. I just wanted to inform you that your dress is ready.”

“Thank you Miss Robinson, I’ll be out directly.” 

Directly was more like “eventually”. It was just that inside the bath was warm, outside there was...reality. She was meeting with Anthony in less than three hours. 

She still had  _ no idea _ what she wanted to say to him. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William Strang was a Scottish artist who did everything from paintings to etchings, wood cuts, and lithographs. He provided illustrations for several poems and stories, including works by Rudyard Kipling, as well as The Surprising Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1895), Sinbad the Sailor and Ali Baba (1896). William Blake Richmond was a painter, sculptor, and perhaps best known for his mosaics and stained glass, the best known example of which is probably the mosaics in St. Paul’s Cathedral, London. 
> 
> Again, I am a US Historian, therefore I am most familiar with American women’s history. Under the legal doctrine of coverture women basically lost their legal rights and civic existence when they married - they became a feme covert. This impacted all facets of a woman’s life, but in particular her right to property. Any land or property belonging to a woman became the property of her husband/under his control. (This is where the Dowry and Dower come from). In the US even women’s wages technically became the property of her husband. This started to change around 1839 with the first Married Women’s Property Laws, however Louisiana had a “Head and Master” law on the books until 1979, when it was finally struck down. 
> 
> From the random historical fact file, and a note on how Edith can dunk in the tub and then turn around and go to dinner, the handheld hair dryer first appeared in 1920. The Blow dryer was invented in 1890 by a French stylist, Alexander Godefroy. Take that to your next bar trivia night.


	8. I Want to Join in your Happy Band

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Passing reference to suicidal thoughts/intentions and abortion, ableism/internalized ableism, drug use and abortion. 
> 
> This chapter has probably given me more anxiety/was harder to write than all the others combined. Your support has been absolutely fantastic, and I sincerely appreciate it. I hope I do this important conversation justice. My deepest thanks to queenlovett who read this over for content and caught several grammatical errors on my part. All hail!

“Right this way, My Lady.” The butterflies in her stomach, which had been flapping at a fever pitch just moments before had suddenly disappeared. They were replaced by an eerie calmness, the sort of steadiness that came from necessity. There was no running away now, her only option was to press forward, ready or not, and see what would happen next. As she followed the  _ maître d’ _ toward the table (her fate) Edith took a deep breath and very self-consciously tried to release the tension in her shoulders and stand tall. She would need every defense she could muster, including if not actual confidence, than the illusion of it. 

She had spent the three hours she had set aside to get ready desperately trying to convince herself that she wasn’t making a horrible mistake. That it wasn’t a horrible mistake agreeing to see him again. That her dress wasn’t a horrible mistake, nor her shoes, nor her gloves, nor her hair. After three hours, and Miss Robinson’s magic, she now at least believed her wardrobe choices were correct. She looked spectacular - probably the best she’d ever looked, including on  _ That Day _ . Her hair and makeup were superb, but it was her dress that made her feel like she could take on anything - including  _ him. _ She loved this dress. The frock was teal blue, the bodice entirely beaded and reminiscent of a peacock's tail. The neckline was straight across and sleeveless, save a thin beaded string which served as a halter and draped across the bare expanse of her back. The skirt was silk and floor length, although split up to her thigh over her right leg which allowed it to ripple and billow as she walked. She loved its details, she loved its drama. And if she could put  _ him  _ on the back foot with her look, all the better. She could already feel the eyes of other patrons on her as she crossed the room, and she tried to draw strength from what she was going to assume was admiration (rather than judgement). 

_ The Criterion _ dining room was a thing of beauty, with a high, high tin ceiling and marble walls. It was striking even in the low candle light. Every table sported a white tablecloth and a gorgeous display of red roses. Larger tables also had a candelabra while smaller ones a simple tea light, which cast the room into moody shadows as the overhead lights were turned down low. 

And sitting at a table for two in the middle of the room was  _ Anthony _ . His attention was elsewhere, clearly trying to read the menu in the dim light and for a moment she allowed herself to drink in the sight of him when he thought no one was watching. He was in black tie again. While he always looked good in suits, there was something in the way his tuxedo fit him that was particularly, distractingly perfect. His handsome features were relaxed, in a neutral, thoughtful expression, save for a slight crinkle between his brows. She could see his large hand spread across the back of the menu, long, elegant fingers cradling the spine as he held the book. 

He looked up, and then looked again, his mouth falling open even as he jumped to his feet as she approached the table. Her dress had obviously had the desired effect. He was absolutely speechless, even as the waiter pulled the chair out for her. ‘Marigold Drewes’ would have reached over and closed his mouth for him, but she was Edith Crawley and this was the most important dinner of her life. 

“Hello, Sir Anthony.” He eventually realized he was gawping and quickly closed his mouth. 

“Lady Edith.” He greeted her carefully. She sat and he sat, the waiter carefully pushing in her chair before coming to stand beside the table. 

“Good evening,” The young man began with poise. “In honor of Valentine’s Day our Chef has outdone himself….”  _ Valentine’s Day _ . Oh Lord, that was  today . When she’d looked at her calendar and set this meeting she had been so utterly distracted by everything else that she hadn’t once put together that Monday, the fourteen  _ of February _ was Valentine’s Day. As much as she feared seeing his reaction Edith chanced a glance at Anthony, who was looking back at her, the same surprised, confused, stricken expression on his face. ‘Valentines Day?’ he mouthed and she desperately wanted to hide her face, or shrug. Instead she mouthed back ‘I’m sorry’. This was supposed to be a neutral meeting on neutral ground and she had somehow managed to choose the most romantic night of the year. The holiday certainly explained all the flowers, candles and love songs currently filling the dining room. And why nearly every single table was occupied by a couple rather than a mix of groups. 

“Does that sound acceptable, Sir?” 

“Um...Oh, yes, quite.” 

**#**

Anthony had gone into the evening without any expectations and yet somehow still managed to be surprised at every turn. 

He should have known he was in for something when he saw her. That dress! A goddess in teal silk and beads, he could see flashes of leg as she walked. He’d nearly fainted when he stood up to greet her, all the blood having drained from his head. It was nearly impossible to focus on anything except her pale shoulders and delicate clavicles as she sat across from them. How the beaded neckline glittered and lay across them like diamonds. How she might look wearing actual diamonds and nothing else…

“In honor of Valentine’s Day our Chef has outdone himself….” He was snapped out of his lusty haze,  _ Valentine’s Day?! _ How on earth had he not realized what day it was? He’d thought that it was a bit harder to book a table than usual, but it wasn’t anything that a little charm and a little name dropping couldn’t remedy. Being a baronet had its advantages, as did having connections in His Majesty’s government. He looked across the table at Edith (how had he not recognized the date? The table practically had a rose bush on it), she looked as confused and astonished as he felt. Her gorgeous eyes were wide, like a startled doe and her pretty mouth was pursed like she might be sick.

‘Valentine’s Day?’ he mouthed, trying to assure her that he wasn’t aware it was today either. 

‘I’m sorry.’ she mouthed back. At least she didn’t suspect him of trying to arrange this, like he was trying to get her back. They were there to talk about their failed wedding, trying to turn it into an overtly romantic date seemed like the wrong move. 

“Does that sound acceptable, Sir?” 

“Um...Oh, yes, quite.” Between his blood still returning to his brain and the surprise of Valentine’s day, he only caught the broadest gist of what the young man had been saying. There had been something about price fix with wine pairing and turtle soup.

“Very good, Sir.” The waiter said primly, collecting the menus. 

“Do you have any idea what we’ve just agreed to?” Edith asked, leaning forward slightly.

“No, not exactly.” He could feel a blush creeping across his cheeks. She’d caught him out. “But as he has taken our menus I assume I’ve ordered the Chef’s tasting menu for two.” If he had just ordered for himself, the waiter would have turned to Edith for her order. And it was  _ Valentine’s Day _ , dinner for two was expected. 

“Oh, well, the chef here is exceptional so I’m sure whatever he plans will be excellent.” She said, perhaps a touch too brightly, as if she was trying to cover her true feelings on the subject. Perhaps it was general insecurity, he knew he certainly felt like the rug was about to be pulled out at any second. After how they had ended - how  _ he  _ had ended their relationship, he was still amazed that she wanted to see him at all. And now they had just signed up for seven courses together. It was either going to be the best or worst night of his life, and in either case the food would have nothing to do with it.

**#**

_ Courage, Dearheart.  _ It had been Aunt Rosamund’s advice regarding writing back to Mama but Edith found it applicable here as well. 

“I’d still like to be vaguely aware of what those plans are,” Anthony grumbled mildly, “And, moreover, I didn’t intend to order  _ for you _ this evening, I didn’t want to presume…” To know her mind or that he was in a position to do such a thing she wasn’t sure, in either case she appreciated his mindfulness. 

“It’s alright, we’ll find out together. It will be an adventure.” He chuckled softly at that, although she could see in his eyes he was still skeptical. 

“Yes, but that adventure might bring us  _ snails _ you know.” He countered with a dramatic grimace followed by a soft smile. Edith found herself returning it, giggling softly. Deep in her chest her heart was telling her to reach for him. To take his hand across the table, to admire the way his eyes reflected the candle flame, sparkling like two perfect aquamarines. 

“How was your day?” She beat those urges back, and cleared her throat. Small talk wasn’t what they were meeting to do, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to have  _ the  _ conversation without a glass of wine. And, godforbid it went poorly, they would still have seven courses to sit through in icy silence. No, she would wait until at least the salad before addressing what needed to be addressed. 

“Fine,” He answered hesitantly. “My brother-in-law has asked me to review some translation work for him. After three years in Kenya his Swahili has improved considerably, completely at the expense of his German.” He chuckled. Verne Chetwood, Anthony’s brother-in-law worked for His Majesty’s Diplomatic Service, he had been  _ Conseiller des affaires étrangères _ in Paris for a number of years before spending the last three years overseeing the transformation of the East Africa Protectorate into the  Colony of Kenya. Living in Nairobi Anthony’s sister and her family were unable to attend their wedding. And Edith had often wondered how things might have been different if his family had been around to support him immediately after the war. But they were home now, apparently, (obviously) living and working in London once again. 

“He says he’s too embarrassed to take a refresher course and would rather have  _ me  _ know his inadequacies than his staff, but I suspect Louisa’s hand in this. She always worries what will happen if I get too bored.” He continued. 

“If I remember correctly she has reason to worry about what you will get up to if left to your own devices. I seem to recall a story or two about unnecessary modifications to a bicycle…” His cheeks flushed pink but he didn’t disagree. 

“Yes well, perhaps she has a small point. Anyway, I spent my day alternating between Chetwood’s atrocious grammar and doing some light research on a new combine harvester.” It sounded like an ideal day for him. He was always happiest digging into a research project, stacks of books around him like a mountain range, making his desk nearly impossible to see beneath them and the cascade of papers like snow. Unlike her father’s obsessively neat desk, his library office always appeared lived in, functional, used. He might have the standing to be a man of leisure but he rarely ever idle. 

“And how was your day?” He asked, “What intellectual delights shall the next edition of  _ The Sketch _ bring? I must compliment you on the direction you’ve taken the magazine. While I always enjoyed your articles in the old  _ Sketch,  _ the former magazine was just a shadow compared to what you’ve created.” She could feel her cheeks burning bright in the dim light. 

“Thank you.” She never set out seeking his good opinion when she took over  _ The Sketch _ . She hadn’t created her editorial vision thinking about anyone’s approval really. She just knew what  _ she  _ wanted in a magazine and went from there. The investors had seemed happy with her idea when she’d pitched it, and Roger had supported her. Even Grandma Martha’s explicit mandate to hire more women artists and writers was something she had planned on doing. Ultimately  _ The Sketch _ ’s vision was  _ her  _ vision. She hadn’t done it for him, but all the same, his enthusiasm for the direction she was taking the magazine was gratifying. 

“My day was interesting, I spent the morning in St. Paul’s Cathedral working on an article, and in the afternoon I solved a murder.”

**#**

“You did what?” Anthony hadn’t realized it was possible to choke on air. The Edith he knew had been full of surprises, but none quite like this. Her immediate response was interrupted by the waiter, appearing over them with a silver tray of oysters and a decanter of pure, pale golden wine. 

“ _ Huîtres Musgraves _ and a lovely Chablis 1915.” He placed the silver tray down between them and then laid the small, three tine forks beside the knives.

“Well,” Edith gave him a wry smile. “It’s not snails.” The half dozen molluscs had been fried in their shells with small strips of bacon, and looked quite promising. He laughed and poured them each a glass of wine. 

“That they are not.” He had to agree. After spending the entire day distracted from his work, imagining the worst possible scenarios, this dinner was an absolute breeze. After some initial awkwardness they were now back to making one another laugh like no time had passed. He could almost imagine that he hadn’t had a breakdown  _ That Day _ and that he and Edith were married. That this was an actual celebration of Valentine’s Day rather than an accident of scheduling. 

Except they weren’t married. 

And apparently she’d solved a murder. (Of all the things she could have announced, he absolutely would not have guessed  _ that _ ). 

“The chap we found behind ‘the Mill’?” It was the first dead body he’d seen which didn’t haunt his dreams, which his doctor was taking as a good sign. Anthony was pretty sure it had more to do with the fact that this was the first dead body he’d seen who’s death wasn’t directly related to him in some way. That and the fact seeing Edith again after  _ That Day _ had his emotions in such an uproar that he had no room for anything else, not even death.

“Lionel Wellington, yes. Provided Detective Fox has kept up his end.” Detective Fox. Right. Anthony hadn’t realized he’d been leaning forward until he felt himself lean back. Seeing  _ her  _ again had stirred up a lot of emotions, but not as many as seeing  _ her  _ so close with another man had. Young, handsome, and seemingly good at his job...Anthony couldn’t stand him. As casually as he could he took an oyster. He had wanted her to find someone young and whole, begged her to in fact. He had no right to complain now that she had listened to him.

_ If she’s moved on with Fox, why did she ask if you still loved her?  _ A voice, sounding suspiciously like Louisa asked in his head.  _ And only  _ _ after _ _ you told her you did, did she ask to see you again? You’re not out on your ear just yet, old man! _ Louie’s vote of confidence did not completely buoy him. There was, after all, such a thing as wishful thinking. 

“So then, Detective Crawley, whodunit?” She positively beamed with pride. 

“Joseph Ellis, the trumpet player in the band.”

“The chap wearing angel wings? How did he do it? Rig his mute so that he could shoot a dart through it?” He was admittedly a bit biased, considering his one, vague memory of the alleged killer was so utterly ridiculous it was hard to take it (or him) seriously, but he didn’t look like a murder. Nor was he carrying an obvious weapon. He couldn’t have, while the young constables were understandably skittish about searching the ladies of the club, they were quite capable of patting down a man. He knew first hand. Edith nearly choked on her oyster. 

“What? No. Really, your mind sometimes, Anthony.” She couldn’t keep the fondness from her voice. It warmed him to his core. Detective Fox might be handsome and young, but he could make her laugh. “Wellington was stabbed with a hat pin.”

“A hat pin?” Those things were bloody sharp. One the downsides of his height (other than always feeling like more of a door than a window) was that Maud had been so much shorter than he was (she had been smaller than Edith). It had made kissing difficult on occasion, it had also meant that there were a few times that he’d been attacked by her hats. Picks and pins were the bane of his existence (he even had a very faint scar along his jaw where one had left a particularly vicious scratch - that was the last time he ever went to Ascot). 

“A hat pin is a perfectly capable murder weapon, they are extremely sharp!”

“I am well aware!” He ran a thumb over the thin line on his jaw. Poor Maud had been mortified when she realized she’d scratched him, doubly so considering how much the little break in the skin had bled. They had to toss his handkerchief and his collar in the end. As happy as his first marriage had been, he and Maud never had much success with anything that resembled a ‘date’. 

“But the coroner said that the murder weapon was a knife.” He  _ vividly _ remembered that. For as long as he lived he would never forget Edith reaching under her scarlet fringe skirt and pulling out a  _ nine-inch _ switchblade from her garter, opening it with the flick of her wrist and more confidence and comfort than some soldiers he had met. 

“There was some tearing at the top of the wound which made it look more oblong than round, he realized his mistake once he got Wellington back to the lab and performed an autopsy. The wound was long, thin, straight, and cylindrical. Too thin to be any sort of knife, or even an ice pick. Too long to be a needle.” She had read the autopsy report. Or had someone go over it with her. In either case her involvement was far from casual. She was actively investigating the death at the club, and seeming to love every moment of it. 

**#**

Over the remaining oysters they discussed the suitability of a hat pin as a murder weapon. Anthony actually snorted when she told him Constable Hill’s “she just wears it?”. For a moment it was like he had never left. She could easily imagine they were married when he sat across the table, laughing by candlelight. In fact, this was probably better than how they had been those months ago. He was healthier for one, the man sitting before her now was much closer to the one she’d been introduced to in 1914. She was also changed for the better. She felt more confident and competent than she ever had at Downton. She was more  _ herself _ . If they could heal from the past and make this work, they were in better places than they ever were before. She felt such hope… the third time might be the charm.

But they had to acknowledge what had ruined them last time. 

And before that she should probably finish the story she was in the middle of telling.

But first, turtle soup. 

“Determining who killed Wellington was a bit of a challenge,” An understatement. “I can’t think of a way in which the man wasn’t  _ deeply  _ unpleasant. He was both abusive and unfaithful to his fiancee  _ and  _ blackmailing enough people that when he died he had a thousand pounds in cash on him.”

“He had  _ how much? _ ” Anthony stopped, spoon halfway to his mouth. 

“A thousand pounds. In cash. He got five hundred off one couple alone.” 

“How?”

“I don’t know! But he had filmed them in a  _ very delicate  _ situation. I have no idea how he did it, the couple was extremely discreet. Wellington must have not only found out about their romance but also  _ where  _ they had their trysts and then managed to gather the evidence.” There was no need to tell him the exact nature of the delicate situation, nor that she saw the film itself, nor that she found all of this out because she crawled through a second story window. It wasn’t exactly lying. He didn’t directly ask her about these details, she just wasn’t volunteering them. (She had directly asked him to tell her about his arm, his war experience, how he was feeling - her omissions were completely different). 

“We could have used him in the war…” Edith doubted he would have used his...skills for King and Country, not when there was money to be made. 

The soup course was sidetracked by a discussion of blackmail, gossip, and espionage. The Venn diagram wasn’t a perfect circle, but it was surprisingly close.

“I digress,” She eventually steered the conversation back towards a track. The waiter was now removing the soup bowls, eventually they would have to start discussing serious matters. 

“Right, yes, why did Ellis murder Wellington? Was he being blackmailed as well?”

“Not quite,” Edith shook her head, “Wellington was blackmailing  _ Mrs.  _ Ellis. You see, she had been married before, back in Virginia, where she’s from. When she and Ellis met she told him that her previous husband was dead. That’s what they told the registry office in Melbourne as well, but it turns out-”

“He wasn’t!” There was an excited gleam in his eyes as she spoke of the case, his brilliant mind piecing together the information she gave him, building connections, evaluating clues. He would make an excellent detective. 

He would also make an excellent character in a detective novel. Briefly she wondered if anyone had written that - charming, if traumatized baronet with intelligence experience solving mysteries in his spare time. The books would be even better once an equally as intelligent love interest was introduced... _ Edith, focus! _

“Exactly! Her first husband sounds like an absolute brute of a man, and I don’t blame her in the least for talking the money and running. Although it does mean that she’s still legally married and wanted for theft.” 

“And Wellington found this all out...how?” It was a question she found herself asking more than once, so far she’d not figured out how he managed to be such a master of whispers and Fox only seemed interested in untangling his web as far was necessary to identify and apprehend his murder. 

“I have no idea, but he did. Threatened to tell Ellis - whom she really does love and care about - that she was a bigamist unless she performed...acts of a  _ personal _ nature on demand.” Anthony’s face darkened. 

“That utter bas-” He caught himself.

“My thoughts exactly. As far as I can tell, anyone who has found out anything about the man has been rather willing to kill him again.” 

“So Mr. Ellis found out Wellington was coercing his wife and killed him to protect her?”

“Sadly, I’m afraid not. Fox might know for sure by now, but I think what actually happened was that Ellis saw Wellington and his wife in a...compromising position and assumed the worst.”

“Ah.”

“When he stabbed Wellington, he wasn’t saving his wife, he was killing her lover.”

“Jealousy is a powerful motivator.” Anthony nodded sagely. Edith knew that intimately well. It had been jealousy and spite which had driven many of her actions as a young woman, including writing to the Turkish Embassy about her own sister. She had been so jealous that Mary could get away with something - with the help of their  _ mother  _ \- which was completely prohibited. The rules never seemed to apply to Mary, or even to Sybil the way they always applied to her. And so she’d aired family secrets out of petty revenge, and perhaps the vain hope that if Mary could be exposed and brought down to her disfavored level, she, Edith, might get to experience a moment in the sun. It hadn’t worked that way. Things never worked that way. She tried not to dwell. 

“So is love. We, Detective Fox and I, confronted Mr. and Mrs. Ellis with this information - that we knew Wellington was blackmailing her and what about. The horror on Ellis’ face as he realized just how badly he misjudged his wife was palpable. Mrs. Ellis saw it too and immediately confessed to the murder herself.”

“She did?!”

“She did. Quite forcefully too. Her confession was completely wrong, of course, she had no idea how Wellington actually died. Everything she described from the weapon to the angle of attack is completely made up, but Fox says that unless Mr. Ellis confesses or we can find evidence to definitively exonerate her and point to him she’ll be convicted of the crime.” The young waiter was back, bringing plates of Filet de Sole with mousseline sabayon sauce. His head was cocked, the only indication that he was even aware of what was being said around him. She could only imagine how different their conversation was from the others in the dining room. 

**#**

“...but Fox says that unless Mr. Ellis confesses…” There was that man again. Fox says, Fox thinks.

“You and the Detective seem...friendly.” The minute he said it, he wanted to take it back. This meeting was about addressing and healing the  _ hurt  _ he’d caused her  _ That Day. _ Not the time or place for him to discover a jealous streak. She wasn’t  _ his _ , she’d always been her own woman to make friends as she saw fit, and he’d explicitly  _ left  _ because he wanted her to find someone ‘young and whole’. He had no right to be jealous. It was a pernicious trait, like a weed in his psyche he should have rooted out. Edith took a few bites of her filet. 

“Friendly? Time before last I saw him he had me in handcuffs for an entire afternoon.” Her hands immediately flew to cover her mouth. “I didn’t mean to admit that.” Came her muffled voice. 

“ _ What?! _ ” Edith, in handcuffs? It beggared belief. He knew his jaw was hanging slack again, but that was the only appropriate reaction. 

“When I got involved in the Butcher George case he told me the next time he caught me interfering with a police investigation he would arrest me. The man is as good as his word.” The way she chewed her lip he knew there was more to the story than that, but even those two sentences were enough. 

“The Butcher George case?” Michael Gregson’s death and the world of vice, depravity and murder it unveiled had dominated the press from the moment his body had been found. Anthony had of course followed the case closely because he had a very particular interest in the success of  _ The Sketch _ , but even if he’d not the news coverage had been nonstop. Even the less sensational press had feasted upon the story. It had everything - two murderous women, taking revenge on an adulterous husband. There had been drugs, there had been abortions, there had been a plot to murder every one of his mistresses via abortion. Writers could carp on about morality, could highlight the twists, decry modern women even. The only thing that took the story off the front page was the eventual arrival of Christmas.

“Would have never been solved without me and my ‘interfering’.” She sounded tremendously proud of herself. “Even Fox admitted that the case would have never been closed without me, Opal, and Lori. I was also the one who figured out the connection between Gregson, George Whitten, and Madam Moreau, although we agreed to keep that out of the papers. Papa would have hit  _ the roof _ if he knew half the story. He was scandalized enough to learn my boss had been murdered!” That Anthony could believe, Robert could barely stand to have a less than able bodied man for his son-in-law. What he was having trouble following was how she got involved in the case in the first place. 

“How did you get involved to begin with?” Edith blushed brightly and took a long sip of her wine. She then focused on eating for a moment, clearly trying to decide how to phrase what she would say next.

“One of Witten’s victims was thrust into my cab, her name was Alice, she had worked for  _ The Sketch _ , in the art department. That was when I learned that the Police had long suspected George Whitten of butchering women in the guise of providing an abortion and were doing nothing about it. Around that same time Gregson invited me to what he claimed was a literary party. When I arrived at his flat I discovered not only his dead body, but that he had been lying in an attempt to get me alone.” Her cheeks burned another shade brighter and she sipped her wine. “Mrs. Gregson went so far as to accuse me of being his mistress - which  _ very few  _ people know about so please don’t say anything!” 

Edith went on to tell how Moreau had also assumed she was having an affair with Gregson and offered to ‘help her’, which was how Edith put together that Moreau knew about Gregson’s affairs. She described how she and her friends, Opal and Lori, tried to break into Moreau’s office at the spa and how Opal had pretended to be in the family way to arrange a meeting with Whitten which eventually led to his arrest. She then briefly summarized what Whitten confessed and then admitted to attempting to sneak back into the spa and being caught by Moreau and Mrs. Gregson. 

“...I have every faith that Opal would have picked the lock, but I was still ever so grateful to see Fox and the police arrive…” She told the story well, with humor and dramatic pauses. But all he heard was about four different times she (or her friends) nearly died. 

When he had said that he hoped she would live a full and interesting life, being locked in a sauna by two murderesses wasn’t exactly what he was imagining. 

**#**

“I think you’ve lived more of a life in the last eight months than many people could ever imagine - you’ve saved a woman’s life, unmasked  _ three _ killers, and are running an extremely successful magazine. You’ve made friends and really started a life of your own here.” Anthony’s expression was still yo-yoing somewhere between admiration and complete bewilderment. Which, she supposed was fair, her life had really taken an unexpected turn since  _ that day _ , she could hardly believe it herself at times. 

His comment also reminded her of the conversation that they needed to have. Making small talk and telling tales of murder had been a plesant destraction from the hard conversation they needed to have. If they couldn’t sort themselves out - acknowledge what needed to be acknowledged, apologize and forgive - the fact they loved one another would ultimately mean nothing. They could not move forward the way things were. 

She took a deep breath, and plunged forward: 

“I had to start a completely new life here,  _ you _ effectively put an end to all of my future plans  _ that day _ .” Anthony sat aside his fork, pain flitting across his features and settling in his eyes.

“I am so sorry, Edith. I cannot say it enough, I am so, so sorry.”

“Well say it again.” She was not going to cry, nor was she going to yell, although she felt like doing both. She was going to focus on being honest with him and see where that got them. She hoped that he would be honest with her and that they might be able to move forward together - they did love one another after all. But love alone was not enough. 

“I’m sorry.”

How to explain… She had forgiven him, she would always forgive him. It wasn’t that. Forgiveness and explanation were important to healing, but not enough. They had to make sure they didn’t hurt one another again. Words were words. Actions were just as important. If they were going to move forward they had to be honest with one another about the past, about their feelings, and about what they wanted out of the future. 

“I read your letter. And I’m sorry too - what you endured, what was asked of you!” Instinctively she reached for his hand. She had wanted to do that for so long. He hesitated but eventually reached for her too. His hand was firm and warm, almost eclipsing her smaller one, she looked up and met his eyes across the table. They were bright and sparkling, perhaps a little apprehensive but not clouded nor pained as they had been before. 

“Thank you for sharing that with me, all of it.” 

The waiter had terrible timing, although for once he wasn’t interrupting to ask how everything was when she was chewing. No, now he was back with the salad in the middle of their  _ moment.  _ Both she and Anthony sprang apart as he politely announced himself. Neither spoke as their appetizer plates were replaced with a crisp green salad and the Chablis taken away and a bottle of  _ Romanée Conti  _ 1900 presented. Even after he left they were silent, simply staring at one another. Eventually Anthony cleared his throat. 

“We intended to talk...about  _ That Day. _ ” He prompted. 

“We did. We need to.” She agreed. He remained silent, clearly waiting for her to take the lead. She supposed it was fair, she had proposed the conversation in the first place. She took a deep breath.  _ Courage! _

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about…our failed wedding. Not immediately afterward, of course, but eventually I stopped crying.” She couldn’t help the small, self-deprecating chuckle. If ever Anthony looked like he was awaiting a beating from the headmaster it was  _ now.  _ “After I finally stopped feeling so numb, I began to feel other things. Everything, really.  _ I love you, _ Anthony Strallan, I have never stopped. Not once. Not one day since 1914 have I stopped loving you.” As hypnotic as his eyes could be, she knew that if she looked at them she would be utterly lost, so instead she studied the third button of his dress shirt. She wouldn’t look away from him, she wasn’t ashamed or  _ that  _ much of a coward, but she couldn’t raise her gaze higher than that. “But I have to be honest - with you, about everything that has happened. Because as much as I love you, love is not enough to save this relationship.”

**#**

“...as much as I love you, love is not enough to save our relationship.” Anthony could feel his heart drop into his stomach and keep falling.  _ Not enough to save our relationship. Not enough to save our relationship. _ His mind was reeling. He’d tried not to be too hopeful as he booked them a table but he hadn’t expected her to give him his marching orders over the salad course. 

_ Strallan. Strallan, you heard, but were you actually  _ _ listening _ . The doctor’s voice chimed in, bringing his spiraling thoughts to a stop.  _ Love is not enough to save this relationship.  _ She had said that she loved him, that she had never stopped. And although love was not enough to save their relationship, it was clear that she  wanted to save their relationship. She wasn’t sending him away - at least not yet. There was a chance…

Therapy had been hard, especially at first. He’d resisted talking and resented the personal questions sometimes posed. But in the end it had been absolutely worth it. He sat up straighter and committed himself to  _ listening.  _ He’d not dreamed that he could have a future with Edith, not after everything that had happened. But it appeared like there was an opportunity...he just had to  _ listen. _

“I don’t know what to say.” It was the truth. He was at a loss. He loved her, he wanted a future with her, but he didn’t know how to fix their present. 

“I want you to be honest with me. For the rest of dinner - even after dinner. We need to have a real, honest discussion. It’s the only way we can move forward.” She took a steadying breath, “Unless, you don’t want to pursue this further.” Oh God! Had he given that impression? His eyes snapped to Edith’s. She looked just as scared as he felt. As if the question was voicing her own insecurities rather than an accurate interpretation of his behavior.  _ Say something! _ Both his inner narrative  and the doctor shouted in his head.  _ Be honest. _

“I love you, Edith.” He swallowed thickly. It was a good start. “I didn’t expect for you to still feel the same, after...everything, let alone suggest...moving forward.” She gave a small nod. 

“Then I think we need to have a real, serious conversation about  _ That Day. _ ” He swallowed, and then nodded. He’d already re-lived it as he wrote her his letter. It had taken four drafts before he found what he wanted to say and how, and then a fifth draft to have it in his best handwriting. But if she wanted to re-live it together, he would. This wasn’t rehashing it for fun, nor out of malice, this was trying to move forward, he reminded himself. Edith nodded again and then carefully picked up her fork and began eating. It seemed odd, he most certainly wasn’t hungry any more. 

She chewed her lettuce and gave him a sharp look. Her eyes flitted from his face to his fork, back to meet his eye and then down to stare at his salad. She did this a few times.  _ She wants you to eat _ . But he wasn’t hungry.  _ You still need to eat.  _ The doctors had drilled that into his head while he was in Scotland, and Stewart continued the mantra when he got home. Not eating wasn’t healthy, and while hunger helped remind the body to get sufficient nourishment, one could still eat even if they lacked the appetite. Carefully he picked up his fork. The salad tasted like ash, but he ate. Up until now the dinner had been excellent. 

Edith ate with determination, clearly forcing herself to do so. He could see the wheels in her mind turning as she chewed. She was also thinking of what to say next. He was grateful for that, he still didn’t know where to start. Eventually she spoke:

“At first I didn’t feel anything. I knew I was sad, I couldn’t stop crying, but I didn’t  _ feel _ sad. I didn’t feel anything for so long. And then I began to feel  _ everything  _ \- all at once.” She sipped her wine. He braced himself. He knew she wanted this to be a conversation but he wasn’t about to speak until he had heard everything. He had already told her about his life immediately following the wedding, now it was her turn. He could already tell it was going to turn him inside out, but really, it was his fault - he had  _ hurt  _ her, so he deserved any discomfort. 

“I was  _ humiliated. _ You completely blind sided me, in front of all of my friends, my family, and the entire village. I can’t begin to express how much that  _ hurt. _ Everyone,  _ everyone _ was there - it was supposed to be the happiest day of my life and  _ everyone  _ saw… you leave me. The unwanted bride.” 

“Ne-Nev-” Never unwanted. Surely she had to know  _ that. _ She had been wanted, desired, dreamed of… No, of course she wouldn’t know that. He had never really told her, and when he had he then promptly turned around and ran out of the church. He firmly shut his mouth. Now was not the time to start arguing with her about her feelings. “I’m sorry.” Apologizing was the appropriate response. 

“Thank you.” She nodded, the tension around her eyes loosening slightly. He’d not even noticed it was there until he saw it start to relax. “I was also _furious._ _How dare you_ presume to make this decision for me!” She fairly growled.Her voice was low and dangerous. “To act like you know my mind better than I do. To assume that I am incapable of making choices for myself. How dare you keep vital information from me as I made those decisions.” 

“Your letter broke my heart, Anthony. Everything you’ve suffered, it’s heart wrenching. Your letter also lit my anger anew. _How dare you_ keep something so important from me - your war experience is something _I asked you_ about, it’s something I should have been made aware of as your fianceé. It directly impacted your physical and mental health. How could I begin to help you when _I didn’t know_ all the ways in which you needed my help? I blamed myself for _so long_ thinking I had failed you when in reality I had no idea what you actually needed. And I had no idea because you didn’t tell me. You kept it a secret. And you kept it a secret from me because of this _infantilizing_ assumption that somehow I couldn’t handle the truth!” She was _furious_. Incandescent with rage, and trying to hold it back because they were in a very public place. He could see how she shook trying to keep her voice low. He watched her close her hands into fists and then open them slowly. The tremor in them remained so she repeated the action again, and again. 

Part of him wanted to jump in, to make his own defense. He absolutely deserved her anger. He had made the decision to call off  _ their  _ wedding on  _ his own. _ In the moment he had clearly not thought about what that sort of unilateral decision making would mean to her. He totally did not intend to suggest she was incompetent or incapable. He was so focused on his belief that she was martyring herself for him to think about anything else. 

It was partially true that he _ decided _ not to tell Edith everything out of a misplaced sense that he was protecting her, because he was worried about how upsetting it would be. It was also true that he didn’t tell her because he  _ couldn’t _ , his war work had been (still was actually) classified. He’d only been allowed to tell his sister, his next of kin, that he was a forward observer and would be in mostly remote locations and thus mail would take time to reach him. Louisa hadn’t been allowed to formally know he was in intelligence work, although Verne had used every contact he had in the government to ferret out the truth (the man was a veritable terrier). 

He also had  _ tried  _ to tell her. He’d had every intention of telling her what he could. But at first it hadn’t seemed like the right time. They had just been reunited. He wasn’t sure if that was the best topic of conversation for their first tea together in years, ‘yes, hello, so lovely to see you again, I was a spy for His Majesty’s government and now I can’t sleep because if my mind isn’t constantly occupied it does nothing but  _ remember _ ’. It had only gotten more difficult as the courtship continued and by the time they were engaged it was nigh impossible. It was literally impossible to tell her during the engagement because she stopped listening. He’d brought the subject up at least three times when they were engaged and each time she brushed it aside. Like she didn’t want to know. Or she hadn’t heard. Possibly the latter, it seemed like from the moment he had slid his ring on her finger her mind rejected anything that wasn’t The Wedding. Her Wedding. Her  _ Perfect  _ Wedding. How could he bring up all of his ugliness when she wanted a perfect wedding. How could  _ he  _ be a part of such a thing in the first place? Him with his nightmares and gaunt frame and useless arm? She had wanted perfection. She deserved it. And there was no way he could provide it. 

“We were supposed to be a marriage of true minds, Anthony.” Her voice was soft. Raw. It brought him back to her and the present. “But in the end you didn’t have any more respect for me than my father.” 

Wham. The accusation slammed into him like a fist. He hated how Robert Crawley treated his daughters, especially the disregard he consistently showed Edith. He hated how borth Robert and Cora allowed others in the family to treat their middle daughter - they had never done anything to curb Mary’s bullying, they never defended her to Violet after she would belittle her. The clear double standard had always made him sick. He’d often thought Robert to be a self-important bore. As much as he liked the man, the friendship they had shared over the years, he still couldn’t stand how the Earl thought he had the right to comment on and dictate the lives of others. He had  _ tried  _ to be better than that. 

In the end he had failed. In the end he had made her feel exactly how her father did - that she had no control over her life because she was young or stupid, or just a  _ girl. _ He hadn’t trusted her, he hadn’t treated her like an equal. He had made decisions for her, without her. And he had  _ hurt  _ her.  _ Humiliated  _ her. She took a long, deep, unladylike drink of her wine. He couldn’t look away from her, even as he felt like he was bleeding. Eventually she sat her wine down and dabbed away the red mustache it had left. She couldn’t meet his eyes, but he could see that they were red and glassy, at any moment tears might spill over her lower lashes. 

“I’m sorry.” His voice didn’t quite come out the first time. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m sorry.” And he was. He absolutely was. “I never wanted to hurt you, but my intentions mean little when I so clearly did. I hurt you very badly indeed, in ways that I could imagine and in ways that I did not.” Intention was meaningless when you shattered someone so thoroughly as he had. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” She didn’t have to, not at all. But he wanted her to, he prayed she would. 

The conversation was paused as the young water reappeared. He made no comment at their half eaten salads and made quick work of clearing the plates and presenting the main course -  _ Faisan Rôti _ with bread sauce and Pommes Byron. 

**#**

She had done it. She had managed to tell him  _ exactly _ what had hurt her without breaking down into incoherent sobbing. She had named it, articulated it and he had actually apologized. It felt so much better, she felt so much lighter, actually hearing not a blanket apology ‘I’m so sorry’ but an apology explicitly for the pain he caused. Now that he was aware she could begin to hope that they could move forward. That they could learn from this and not let it happen again.

Although, she also knew she owed him an apology. It wouldn’t do them any good in the long run to lay all the blame at his feet and accept none of it herself. She had been far from perfect over the course of the relationship. And although he had been too polite to say so in his letter, she knew some of the stress he was under before he broke was caused by her. 

“I owe you an apology as well.”

“No, Edith, you don’t. I was the one who hurt you.” 

“I disagree.” She finally met his eye. “I had a lot of time to think about this, as I said. Naming my feelings took time, but as I was thinking about what I was feeling and why I also thought long and hard about our relationship. Especially how things were when you came home. There were things you did very poorly indeed, Anthony; but I was far from perfect in how I handled things. And I owe you an apology.” He nodded, quietly, and she continued. 

“I owe you an apology for my family.” He opened his mouth to speak but she stopped him with a raised hand. “I know one can never truly apologize for the actions of others. I’m also well aware that if I start apologizing for my family I’d likely never stop. But nonetheless I owe you an apology.” Her family had been horrible to him. Even more so than their usual dramatic, petty, terrible behavior. And she had done nothing to stop it, not in the moment, not after the fact. She had neither confronted her family for their behavior nor gone and tried to comfort him after. At the time she had just not felt like expending the emotional energy and having a row. In reality she had just acted selfishly. What sort of partner had she been when she wouldn’t stand up for her own fiancé to her family. 

Anthony sat aside his wine glass and held up his hand to stop her. 

“Edith, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate the apology for your family’s behavior.” He took a careful breath, clearly buying himself a few seconds to make sure he knew what he wanted to say next. “But if we’re going to apologize for hurting one another, there are other things that hurt me more than your grandmother’s sharp tongue.” 

_ Oh _ . She closed her mouth so quickly she could feel her teeth clack together.  _ You wanted to have an honest conversation.  _ She reminded herself. And his tone wasn’t angry, it wasn’t accusatory. After everything she’d said to him his tone was calm, and even, and gentle. 

“The period of our engagement was the most difficult for me.” He began slowly, clearly thinking through every word. “You changed. The moment my ring was on your finger you ceased to be Edith. You became The Bride. It seemed like from the moment we were reunited you were pushing us down the aisle, not because you wanted to marry  _ me _ but because you wanted to be  _ married.  _ It felt like, particularly as the wedding drew closer, you forgot everything except for your rivalry with your sister. It felt like your priority was the wedding and trying to steal Mary’s spotlight. I could have been Adam, or a well trained dog for all that  _ I  _ mattered in the engagement.”

_Oh._ _Oh God._ She had, of course, intellectually, known that her relationship with Mary was toxic. It always had been. It had been petty, and mean spirited, and had driven her to do terrible things. She’d written the Turkish Embassy because she’d cared more about ruining her sister than thinking through what could happen to her reputation by extension. It had made her into a mean, spiteful girl. She’d recognized that. She had had no idea her acidic spite had burned him too. Had she had been in less of a rush to get them down the aisle, if they had waited, and focused on themselves and their relationship rather than the details of the most lavish wedding she could squeeze from her father they might have managed to actually _talk_ to one another. 

“The pressure of the wedding, it wore on me, and it drove you further and further away. You were so  _ distant.  _ “Even when we were in the same room. In the end it didn’t feel like you were listening to me at all. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything, but there were times when I felt like you really didn’t want to know. You ignored my concerns - about myself, my arm, and our future, whenever I tried to bring them up. Or, worse, you occasionally dismissed and disregarded them. While you stopped listening, you kept talking - about how this was going to be a  _ perfect  _ wedding. Everything had to be  _ perfect  _ and, well...how could you have a perfect day with a  _ broken _ groom?” 

_ How could you have a perfect day with a  _ broken  _ groom? _ The words sliced through her like a winter wind. She had braced herself and yet it still took her by surprise, took her breath away, and made her eyes water.  _ Oh. Oh God _ . She recognized that she had been a bit insensitive during their engagement but...She’d made it worse. She’d made it so much worse. 

“I’m sorry.” Her voice caught. “I’m so,  _ so _ sorry.”

“Thank you.” His voice was soft. 

.

For a long time there was silence between them. Neither of them quiet ready to speak. The pheasant really was excellent, it was a shame neither of them were really tasting it while they ate. 

**#**

“Where do we go from here?” Anthony eventually (finally) broke the silence. They were nearly finished with dinner now, the bottle of red almost empty, although she didn’t feel remotely tipsy. This was probably due to the timing of the food - time plus food slowed down the drunk feeling, after all. Although she was more certain it was because the conversation had been so heavy. It was impossible to get drunk when you were being serious. She sipped her wine.  _ Where do we go from here?  _ That was  _ the question _ , wasn’t it? They had cleared the air. They had both told the other all the things that had happened which hurt them. They had both apologized. And, she at least, had forgiven him. 

“Well,” She began slowly. “That depends. First of all, can we agree on where we’re going? Do you want to start our relationship over? Or did you just want to...clear the air? Or hear my apology? Or go out to dinner on Valentine's Day?” She loved him and wanted to be with him, despite the pain they had caused one another. She wanted to move forward - together. But if he wasn't interested then she would take comfort in the closure this conversation had brought her. His letter had explained, it had apologized, but it had not replaced meeting in person. It hadn’t offered her the opportunity to apologize as well. 

“Edith, I love you.” He looked straight into her eyes. “I love you and would be  _ honored  _ to be given another chance to be in your life. But do  _ you  _ want that?” 

“Anthony, I’ve been in love with you for over six years. It’s never going to be anyone but you.” His smile was electrifying. Suddenly the dim dining room was full of sparkling light. 

“Then, my Darling, I think we’re on the same path, finally.” That was a relief. Although just because they were walking together didn’t mean the path would be smooth or easy to navigate. 

“While I want to be with you, I don’t want to just jump in where we left off. We fell apart last time because we didn’t have a strong foundation. You were...ill and I was too distracted to listen and I pushed us too fast.” His smile dimmed a little, but he nodded. “We can’t go back and pretend this is the beginning, we both know one another too well for that. But I want to start over in other ways, start courting again from square one. Slowly this time. I want us to succeed and I think that can only be achieved with time.” He nodded.

“We have to build trust again.”

“It’s important. There can be no more secrets between us.”

The waiter returned, two lovely soufflé glacé au citron for dessert, served with two flutes of Champagne. The poor boy had to be mildly confused. Over the course of the night he had walked into conversations about autopsies, silence filled with palpable distress and unshed tears, and now tentative joy. 

“I promise that I will be more forthcoming from now on,” Anthony began, his tone light but his eyes dead serious, “if you promise to actually  _ listen _ .” She could do that. Or at least she could certainly try. 

“Then I propose a toast,” She raised her glass. “To new beginnings.”

  
  



	9. And Play All Day in the Promised Land

“For once I get to show up unannounced to  _ your  _ office.” Detective Fox swept into her office midafternoon on Tuesday. She’d woken up feeling lighter than she had in  _ months _ , even the slight headache (probably from the tension she’d felt leading up to dinner, rather than the amount of wine she’d consumed) couldn’t keep her down. Closure was  _ amazing _ . Optimism about the future was a hell of a drug. She’d managed to have an extremely productive morning even, finally able to focus on  _ work  _ rather than the impending crisis with  _ him. _

“Detective Fox, to what do I owe the pleasure?” She refused to show any annoyance at his entrance, lest he prove his point, but she had just hit her stride on her article. She could feel her point disappearing into the ether with each passing second. 

“I like what you’ve done with the place.” As he had been the investigating officer in Gregson’s murder she supposed he had seen the way the office had looked before. She’d made a point of retaining as little as possible of Gregson’s touch in the office. In part because she didn’t want any reminders of Michael Gregson, no matter how vague, but mostly because he had atrocious taste.

“Well, it’s amazing what design options open up to you when you don’t decorate based on where you can hide drugs.” Fox snorted at that. He was wearing his customary overcoat and suit, hat in hand. In his other hand he carried a manila folder. Outside her inner office window Opal was clearly trying her hardest not to stare while also watching the interaction unfold. It meant she was essentially playing peek-a-boo behind the large vase of long stem, red roses on her desk (the card had been signed simply L and had included two stanzas of a very vivid poem, apparently translated from the original Greek. It made Opal’s eyes light up and sparkle with such happiness Edith held back her teasing about how utterly saccharine it all was). “Did you drop by for a purpose, or are you just here for decorating tips?” Sparring with Fox was fun, but she did have a magazine to run.

“So I have to have a reason when you just saunter into my office on a whim.”

“Whim? I’ve  _ helped _ you solve two murders now.”

“ _ Help _ is a strong word.” Fox shot back, rolling his eyes. “But I am here to update you on the Wellington case. After you left yesterday Mr. Ellis eventually confessed to the murder.”

“Good man.” She knew that if he loved his wife half as much as she loved him, he wouldn’t let her hang for a crime she didn’t commit. 

“And, as much as it pains me to say it, you were right. Ellis used one of his wife’s hat pins to kill Wellington, carried it around in plain sight - disguised as his lapel pin.”

“I knew it!”

“Yes, yes, you’re very smart.” Fox commented dryly, although she thought she could detect a note of pride deep, deep within his voice. 

“What about Sullivan Jones, despite being blackmailed, he is obviously not the killer.”

“He won’t be charged with the murder of Wellington, but there is still the sodomy charge.” Fox casually, too casually (no one was that casual without a greater purpose) walked over and sat the tan folder down on her desk. “We haven’t found his partner yet, but even without them the photos are damning enough on their own.” He looked her directly in the eye and then very deliberately turned his back on her, walking across the office to study her bookshelves. 

“I had the boys tear Wellington’s flat apart, they found all the negatives and prints of the photos. They’re very convincing evidence, but our only hard proof of the illegal activity. If something were to happen to them then the allegations against Jones would just be rumor...rumor dredged up over the course of a murder investigation. Impossible to prosecute without the pictorial evidence, pure, malicious hearsay.” Edith flipped open the folder, inside were prints and negatives of Jones and Wilentz, as well as the photo of her and Anthony. It was sitting on top of the neat pile. Edith looked at Fox. He was still very deliberately studying her bookcase, his nose now deep in her copy of the complete works of Shakespeare. “It would absolutely destroy the case if those photos went missing.” 

For a man who complained about her interference at every turn he certainly seemed to lean on her to do his extra-legal dirty work, she mused. Carefully Edith took the folder full of photos and filed it in the middle of her article notes in the bottom drawer of her desk. She then carefully took an empty file folder and placed it where the original was. 

“You came an awfully long way just to tell me how the case turned out. Especially since you keep telling me to stay out of police business and your way. I should accuse you of sending mixed signals.” Fox reshelved her Shakespeare and turned back around, eyeing the folder on her desk. 

“Lady Edith,” he said, slowly walking back over to her desk. “There are things you can do as a private citizen which are, on occasion, useful. But you shouldn’t mistake that for being a detective or giving you the right to meddle in my cases.”

“Right, I see. I’m an extra set of hands for when the law ties yours, but I shouldn’t presume to get any credit.” She leveled an arch glare at him. He glared right back. 

“You should leave police work to the police.” He lectured, picking up the now obviously lighter, slimmer file. 

“Will you continue looking for Jones’  _ friend _ ?” She’d very pointedly not wanted to know where Freddy Welintz chose to hide out, but they had agreed that if she needed to get in touch with him she could do so by phoning  _ the Maiden in Splendor _ public house in Midsomer Worthy and leaving a message for Sean. 

“Vice isn’t my division, and now that it’s not relevant to a murder investigation, I don’t see the purpose in wasting manpower to track down a consenting adult.” He spoke softly, probably because he was deviating greatly from official policy. 

“How very progressive of you.” 

“Progressvie? Hardly. Purely pragmatic. I don’t get paid enough.” He gave her a faint wink and put his hat back on. “Well,” he announced. “I’ve delivered my message, I best get back to the office and do some real work.” 

Edith watched him leave. She did not understand that man at all.

**#**

That night Edith put on a record and poured herself a glass of wine. Settling by the fire she dug the manila folder out of her work bag. One by one she fed the photos and negatives into the flames until all that was left was the picture of her and Anthony. That she carefully placed in her bedside table. Maybe one day she’d be bold enough to frame it, it really was a  _ very good  _ picture. 

  
Fins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stanzas of poetry Lori sent were from Sappho 31, specifically the second and third. Edith found the lines both vaguely erotic and a bit familiar. Polyglot that Anthony is, he of course has a Greek and English edition of Sappho’s poetry tucked away in a corner of his library.   
> Sappho was an Ancient Greek Poet from the isle of Lesbos, she was regarded as one of the greatest lyric poets of her day (part of the Hellanistic canon) and was sometimes called the “Tenth Muse”. Both the words sapphic and lesbian are derived from her/her poetry - the first being from her name, the second her home. Most of her work has been lost, although some fragments still exist, as well as two basically complete poems “Ode to Aphrodite” and the Tithonus poem. Fragment 31 is one of Sappho’s most famous works. It was adapted by the Roman poet Catullus in his 51st poem, one can also see its influence in Tennyson, Shelley, and Keats.
> 
> Detective Fox, Opal, Lori, Edith and Anthony(!) will be back solving murders again soon, look for their return in The Flower Maidens. 
> 
> My sincerest thanks to all of you for reading this story, for all the kind comments and encouragement. A very special thank you to Queenlovett who was absolutely vital to telling this story - from editing to acting as soundboard this story would not be half as good without them.


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